Empty Arguments
by Sand Cursive
Summary: "No matter how many times you prove me wrong, I will never agree with you." Artemis has crossed a line that she isn't sure can be crossed back over, forcing her to leave the team and leaving Wally behind to sort through his feelings. T for language.
1. Concrete and pudding cups

_From the prompt: "Even if you prove me wrong, I will never agree with you."_

_So yeah, this one kind of got away from me. I really only meant to make it a one-shot, but then it got really long so I'm going to have to split it up.  
** Disclaimer**: I don't think I've started to own Young Justice yet. _

* * *

He's curled up on his side, arms shaky, circling his middle, and tries to breathe shallowly through the _painpainpainpainpain_. His fingers skirt, scared and hesitant, around the gashes in his abdomen, wary and nauseous when he touches something that's fleshy, but not quite skin. The air is thick and metallic, and it burns going down what's left of his throat.

His thoughts are circling in on themselves, nonsensical, foggy with loss of blood and what are probably multiple concussions. He remembers, vaguely that someone is in here with him – a partner. A teammate. The thought trips him up, makes some semblance of clarity pierce through his mind, and he frantically, hurriedly slogs through his jumbled thoughts, still far too slow for his liking. He wants to heal faster, needs to heal faster, to _be_ faster, to find whoever it is, here, with him.

He hears a sharp intake of breath, distant, and it takes him a moment to figure out that it isn't his. He tries to turn, tries to move, tries to see, but he can't because he'll spill, inside out, things that should never never _never_, be pressed against his freckled flesh. If he wasn't a speedster, if he didn't have the ability – no matter if it still isn't up to par, if it can't heal him as quickly as his uncle, as the Flash, as the legacy – he would be dead. No question at all. And the thought worries him, causes sporadic shivers and at the same time freezes him with fear, because he is the only speedster on the team. The other one – the other _victim_, and the word sounds hopeless and tinny and **wrong** in his mind – will not have fared as well as he has. And that is even more terrifying, because he knows for a fact that he is in some deep shit right now.

He claws through his memories, broken and sporadic and frantic, and tries to remember, tries to piece things together_. The end of a botched reconnaissance mission, the team loading up the Bioship, the tired happiness from the Martian, weary grunts from the muscled clone, soothing, lilting tones from the ever-fearless leader. The light, catching in the distance, the strange spark, the offers to check, to see, to make sure. Cackles following, strange filtered green off leaves, water dripping. White, blinding, hard, painful, searing, bone-jolting impact. Black. Black and pain. _

Robin! His stomach lurches and he's certain another ounce of blood has just squirted onto the floor. He's here! And he's – oh _God_, he's **here.** With him. Robin; without powers, without invincibility or invulnerability or accelerated healing. With nothing but his raw skill and trained talent and clever mind to protect him. Robin, barely breathing and suffering and aching somewhere just behind him, so close but so impossibly far.

And the need to turn around and see him is increased tenfold, but he _can't._ He can't, he can't, he can't, because the pain and the hope and the fear and death hang above his head, heavy and oppressive. It's stupid, he thinks, and so, so pathetic, because they're in a square room six feet across with nothing but floor and walls and ceiling and heavy, _bolted_, wooden door, small and still taking up so much _space_. Not even enough room to accelerate even if he could move. Trapped, helpless, and suddenly the idiom 'Shooting fish in a barrel' comes to mind, and it's not a reassuring thought.

Dead, defeated, dying. Playing possum without really having to pretend.

Sweat is beading on his brow, icy and prickling, and his heartbeat is slow. Much, much too slow. They won't last much longer.

The soft _click_ of the bolt as it is unlatched draws his attention, and the door swings open, sweeping through half the room to land on the side wall. And there he is, standing, casual in the doorway, and _of course_ he's back. Back to play another sadistic, twisted, private 'party' game. Because he won't leave them here, alone, to die in the squalor and filth of their own breaking bodies. Because he's having too much fun. He remembers the callous way he'd tossed them in here, the casual way he swung the bat, the happy, breathless light in his eyes as he brought his legs and his arms down, and down, and down. And he remembers the way he had felt Robin's eyes on him, boring into the back of his head, eyes wide and fearful and angry and watching. At some point, Wally's sure he passed out. Passed out far before he even got started on his friend.

He's here to twist their bones and push and push and push to see what it takes to make them break. And Wally almost snarls, low and feral in his throat, but the ripping and bleeding makes it unfeasible. He's going to have a long wait then – he can crush them and torture them and _kill_ them, but it is near impossible to _break_ them. And he thinks he can stand up to it (metaphorically of course), endure and hope and wait for _them _to come. For them to arrive and _save_ them. But then, their captor, their torturer, their _host_, turns around and _beckons_ behind him. _Invites. Welcomes. _And Wally realizes he was wrong. He is much more fragile than he realized.

She saunters into the room, boots whisper soft on the ground, relaxed and confident and so _at home. _Her hip cocked, hair swinging elegantly behind her, she looks down at them and he sees _nothing_. Artemis is gone, wiped clean with that expression of casual amusement. And her lips quirk upwards in that smirk that is so, unquestionably _hers_, and she spits on those days of friendship and trust and happiness together with one, short, breathy sentence. "This probably goes without saying, but I'm off the team."

And he wants to yell and scream and screw up his face in anguish and terror and anger and so much _goddamn disappointment. _But he can't be vocal – not anymore – so he does the only other thing he can think of. The only other thing that could possibly elicit a response. He pretends that it doesn't bother him. That it doesn't matter, that he couldn't care less that she defected, that she burned their _hope _and their _reliance _and their _belief_ in her to the ground with nothing more than a careless quirk of the lips. He tries to convey his apathy, his acceptance, his conviction that he _knew _what she was like, he had _anticipated _it. And his anger burns inside him, so bright and deep and disbelieving that he thinks it will kill him before they do – consume him from the inside out until nothing is left but the charred, smouldering remains of idealism and hope.

"Go ahead, baby girl. Show them how it's done." The voice is low and amused and her expression never changes. Light, smiling, **strange**. And she steps casually over to him, her eyes empty and suddenly so, so _black_. Never changes, even when the sole of a heavy combat boot crushes what's left of his knee. Even when he's too tired and defeated to scream. The blood gushes from him, increasing in flow from the jolt caused by the blow, adding to the litres of contaminated, spilt, _dirty_, blood pooling on the floor. They're swimming now – floating face down in a pool of red; drowning. And she's going to let them.

"Better hurry, Dad," she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice. "I put in a call to the Justice League's little babysitting service so they could make the proper arrangements for when they . . . collect them."

Deep, guttural laughter then, from the man in the damn hockey mask, stained dark brown from dried blood. He moves over to the acrobat, lying prone and probably unconscious on the floor mere inches away, and lifts his boot to mirror his lovely, brutal daughter. Wally wants to spit on him as he passes, but pain is clouding his vision and the effort it would take would likely just rip his guts apart. He's surprised then, when he hears the low grunt of pain – impossibly deep and masculine. Robin's never sounded like that, and he can't understand, doesn't know what it means, until the dirty blond head comes crashing to the floor next to his, blood seeping from somewhere just above the straps of his mask.

He's down, with just one well-placed . . . _something_. And his heart swells with hope and he realizes she's a much better actor than he ever gave her credit for. "What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" And he doesn't sound surprised, just angry, just terrifyingly vengeful at the very _idea_ that she would have the gall to turn this back on him. A heavy boot, crushing his face, cutting off his airways, before he can even move, so swift and fast and terrible that for a moment, even Wally isn't sure he sees it coming. His breathing stops and she leaves it there, waits for a good six minutes with her fingers lightly ghosting over his wrist, checking his pulse. "Sorry, daddy." And her tone is light and soft and just so _easy_ as she carefully rips off his mask. "I was never very good at following orders."

She turns to Wally then, turns to her teammates, never letting her back face the heavy man on the floor with his nose bleeding, likely broken. "You look like shit." And he almost laughs, he really does, but the beginnings of one die in his throat and he just quirks his lips instead and says, croaky and soft and terribly, terribly weak, "You're late."

She bends down, taking a small syringe from a side pocket on her quiver, uncapping the needle and tapping it, pushing a small amount of fluid out of the tip. "This might sting a little." And one eyebrow lifts up in jocular amusement, because really, it can't feel like more than a bite compared to what's going on with the rest of him. Her lips quirk, but it doesn't reach her eyes, still, and he realizes that the absence of expression deadens them, makes the grey turn to stony concrete.

She turns to Robin first, injects him, and he can hear the spasm of his muscles, the way his breath hitches and contracts and suddenly goes quiet, and his heart nearly stops altogether. But he trusts her. She came to save them, she took down her own damn _father_, she wants them to be alright. Never mind how Sportsmaster got his grubby little gloves on her. Never mind that she is so damn _prepared_ for this. He trusts her.

She bends down to give him the needle too, and as soon as she pushes on the plunger, he can see a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye. "Art . . . " And the sound is so weak he's afraid she won't hear, won't be able to understand, but she swivels around and stabs the tip of an arrow from her quiver straight through his reaching hand. Blood adds to the pool in the floor, his and Robin's and now Sportsmaster's, and he laughs. "So I _have_ taught you something after all. But not enough."

He's rolling over, about to get up, to stand, and she can't afford to let that happen. No more stupid games – she's done playing. Her foot comes up again, and she kicks him when his face whips back around, with the satisfying _Crack! _of his nose. And he sees the way she angles upwards, ferocious and contained, knows her well enough to realize it's deliberate, that she's trying to shove the bone fragment into his _brain._ That she wants to _kill _him.

"Artemis," Wally starts, and it's weak and desperate and so, so helpless. The sound grates on her, pierces her skin, but she won't turn around, won't acknowledge him. Can't afford to. "Artemis, **don't**."

And Sportsmaster is on the ground again, backed against a wall, half-dead and skull partially pierced. Wally's frightened now, of where she's going. Can see her, barely, hazy and confused from the medication. "Artemis. You're better than this. I _know _you are." His voice is less than a whisper, carried solely with force of will and fear and confusion.

But her arrows are nocked and ready, and she releases without hesitation, without fear, without remorse, without regret. Two arrows at once, one straight through the heart, the other through the skull. She never misses. "But I'm not, Wally." And the sound is so low and sad and disappointed and quiet, that he wonders if it's just a dream as he slips from consciousness.

* * *

The artificial light filtered into the Med Bay is a soft, buttery yellow, calm and happy. It's almost exactly the opposite of how he feels, which he finds gratingly annoying. Like they're trying to dictate his _mood_ or some other authoritarian crap. He glances over to the side, where the short brunette is propped up in bed, leaning back, utterly relaxed despite working on some triple encryption mission reports. He scowls. The sound it makes must be tangible, because Robin quirks an eyebrow and looks over.

"You're already up?" he asks, petulant. His friend quirks a smile. "I don't have the whole 'accelerated-healing' thing going for me. Your body can accomplish way more during an REM cycle than mine can. You _need_ to be out."

He continues to pout nonetheless. "So . . . ," he drawls. His friend doesn't look up from his screen. "Did I miss anything? While I was out?"

Robin snorts. "Are you kidding me? I was up for like, three hours before you were. We got four visitors, all of whom brought food for their poor, incapacitated, endless stomach of a teammate. Like they were afraid you were going to die because you were _starving_."

Wally ignores the weak joke, eyes immediately shooting in the direction Robin gestures. At the foot of his bed are _piles_ of food – yogurt and pudding and tapioca and rice and soup. He frowns. The distinct lack of cookies bothers him, but beggars can't be choosers, and anyway, someone remembered to grab his favourite flavour of pudding cup – strawberry cheesecake. He grabs a cup and rips off the top, inhaling the contents and tossing the empty container at the trashcan by the wall. He licks his lips as he reaches for another. "So, how long have we been out then?"

Robin casually opens a calendar on his device. "Uh, six days."

Wally nearly chokes halfway through inhaling the third cup. "Are you freaking serious? Do you have any idea how much training we've missed? Holy _crap_, Black Canary's going to kick our _asses_ once we get out of here."

"We're lucky," (and here Wally snorts in derision), "We should have been out for a month at _least_. As it is, we only got out of ICU yesterday." He winces, touching his ribs tenderly. Beneath the thin hospital gown, Wally can make out the thick ridges of bandages wrapping around his torso. He stares, contemplative. "How bad was it?" he asks, and it's really more of a question for confirmation than an inquisition for new information. Robin frowns, his mouth pulling down at the corners so low it's almost comical. He can tell he doesn't want to tell him, but Robin is honest, always has been honest (for the most part), so he waits in patient silence.

"We should have _died._" The silence stretches for a moment, heavy and solemn. Wally lets him collect his breath before he continues. "_You _almost died. Both of us, it would have been –" and he cuts off, calm, collected, in control. "It's fine now. We had to have some reconstructive surgery, well, mostly me, in the legs and in the arms and there was some skin grafting that had to be done, especially around the abdomen. The only reason we made it was because of some sort of weird medication. Some sort of drug even _Batman_'s never seen before. It's weird – like it was made specifically to accelerate the healing and reduce blood loss. I don't know – they're still analyzing the traces they found in the lab."

Wally lets out a low whistle, vaguely impressed. "Damn. Artemis couldn't just tell them what it was? Or where she got it?"

This time, the silence is heavy and awkward, and Wally can tell he's said something strange, something sensitive, but he can't figure out what it is. "Artemis . . . gave us the medication?" Robin asks, slow, careful.

Wally looks over – finally finished with his stack of pudding cups – confused. "What do you mean?" Then he relaxes, eyes glazing over with pity and guilt and sorrow. "Oh, that's right, you were . . . out. Yeah, Arty gave us the meds. She didn't tell you guys? Kicked Sportsmaster's ass . . . too." And he slows, memories catching up with him through his medicated haze, images misting in his mind. He can't remember what's happened. After the medication, the injection, the world is . . . blank.

Robin's frown is soft this time, understanding, compassionate, and suddenly _he's_ the one looking at Wally with pity on his face. Wally isn't sure he wants to know, but Robin's lips open, and he can't cover his ears fast enough. "When the team . . . found us, we were in really bad shape. They'd gotten a call from Artemis that she'd isolated our location, but she never came for them. Went ahead on her own or something. Wally . . . she wasn't there. When they found us, we were the _only_ living people in the room. It was empty."

Now it's Wally's turn to frown. "Well that's weird. What could she have been doing? Did she tell you guys when she came back?"

Robin shifts uncomfortably in his open-backed hospital gown, jostling the I.V. drip and averting his gaze. Wally waits, stares, and eventually his young friend relents. "It's just," he sighs, agonized, "no one's seen her. Not since . . . not since we were . . . since the end of the last mission."

Confusion must show on Wally's face though, so the acrobat tries valiantly to press on. "We – she left the team a note. After – after they collected us. She," he stops, briefly. "She left the team."

Wally's face is blank. He doesn't understand this, can't process this new information. He looks down at the box of empty pudding cups on his lap. Then, how did it get here? He suddenly recalls that the only person who's ever actually bothered to find out his favourite type of pudding cup is Artemis. He turns, still unsure, to the only other occupant in the Med Bay. "But, she came to visit us, didn't she?"

Robin shakes his head. "No one's seen her. Since the last mission."

Wally stares resolutely at the colourful red cardboard. "Then, who brought me the pudding?"

* * *

It's two more weeks before either of them can walk on their own, and even then it's in small, stilting steps. Wally's unusually subdued during the entirety of his physical therapy, and the team knows while he's attempting to put it down to his inability to move fast fast _fast_, he's still confused. And hurt. And he can't understand why he doesn't see the telltale whip of golden blonde hair around the corner, over the couch, and sometimes (though he'll never admit he wants this back too) brushing just past his face, engulfing him in a perfumed cloud of jasmine and spice.

No one offers him an explanation, and he doesn't bother asking for one.

Even when they're finally okay, when they can move on their own without halting and stopping and tripping over nothing. Even when their muscles stop twitching and disobeying them, even when he can stretch and run and go just as fast fast _fast_ as before. He seems different. More quiet. His lively banter hasn't stopped, and his witty comments and lecherous lines have continued their happy rounds, but it's more one-sided. Empty. A jester's mask without a face to rest on.

And one day, Robin can't stand it anymore.

"You could just ask you know." Wally looks up, stiff-backed as he turns to face his friend leaning casually in the doorway. He doesn't pretend not to know what he's talking about. "No one told me."

"Because you didn't ask."

Wally laughs then, bitter and cold. It sends a shiver down the brunette's spine, because if there is _one thing _a speedster should never be, it's cold. "Maybe because I didn't want to know."

Robin snorts, and it sounds so light and out of place in this stark, fluorescent kitchen, in this heavy conversation, that Wally almost flinches. Almost. "What a _crock_," he bites, and he puts special emphasis on the one word he knows will elicit a legitimate reaction from his friend. It works – Wally flinches so largely and visibly that Robin almost feels a sharp pang of guilt, like he's inflicted _physical pain_ on the redhead. But he doesn't. In their line of work, _almost_ is never good enough. "You want to know so badly it's burning you up inside. You're just too _scared_ to do anything about it."

Wally whirls back to the table, shoulders hunched and stance defensive. He doesn't refute the accusation.

"Go ahead – ask." He's goading him now, he knows, and it's cruel and pointless but still all too necessary. Wally's hands form shaking fists, and he vibrates them so violently that he can push it right through the table. Robin's eyebrows go up, impressed, but he wisely chooses not to comment.

"Fine," he forces through gritted teeth. "Why did Artemis quit the team?"

To his credit, Robin doesn't say something teasing and stupid, like 'See, was that so hard?'. "She knew she wouldn't be able to come back."

Wally turns, confused. He's so easily confused these days, Robin thinks, but he answers the unasked question anyway, "Sportsmaster is dead." Cutting straight to the point, not wasting time hiding behind trivialities and tact. Wally doesn't look the least bit surprised – instead, he looks resigned and angry. Now it's Robin's turn to be confused.

"You said no one told you anything."

Wally stalks off, brushing brusquely past his shoulder on the way out. "They didn't."

* * *

He isn't sure he believes his eyes when he sees her, sitting innocently outside a cafe across the street. She seems calm, happy. It's such a huge contrast to the grim, focused girl who walked into the concrete holding cell months ago that for a moment, he thinks that he must have imagined the whole thing. But he can feel the slight, buzzing strain in his muscles, and the slightly off rhythm beat in his walk, and he knows better.

He stands and stares for three beats of his heart before he finally just crosses the road. There are so many questions, so many things he wants to ask, but when she finally looks up, all that he can think of is the way the light shines silver in her eyes and her hair glistens gold in the sun, more precious than any metal. She looks _alive. _He stutters out an awkward, "Hi."

She turns, startled at the proximity when she almost whips right into his chest, and he takes a self-conscious step back. She smiles, and her face is open but hesitant, and she offers up a soft, "Hi," too. She casts an appraising look at his form. "Good to see you're doing better." She squints a little bit, and he knows she can see that he's off-beat, but she doesn't comment on it.

"Why did you do it?" he blurts, and just like that, all the disappointment and hurt and confusion has surfaced, airing out on the quaint tiled table in front of them. She stiffens, and her hand automatically reaches for the cup of Darjeeling steaming in the brisk fall air. She takes a quiet sip, and pauses, ruminating.

Finally, her lips (her soft, beautiful, impossibly deep lips), part, and she releases a cloudy breath. He stands, almost vibrating, and she gestures lazily to the chair opposite her. He pauses, tense, but he takes it, leaning back in the seat, waiting. He's learning to do that a lot, lately.

"It was the third time," she says, and it's soft and sad and angry all at once. She doesn't look at him, just stares resolutely into her warm drink, like the surface is a screen replaying all the memories she doesn't want to see. "And the first two times, you were _lucky_. You were so, _damn, lucky_. Less than an hour each, because we were tracking you." She swallows, throat thick, and she has to close her eyes. "He kept, he kept targeting _you_. And don't – " she holds up her hand to stop his indignant response, "don't pretend you didn't notice. He was always after _you_. And I knew why."

Her fingers trace delicate paths around the edge of the porcelain cup. "He was doing it because of _me._ And he wasn't going to stop. Just keep coming and coming and coming." She trails off, sentence dying in the bustle of a city in the morning. She looks out at the street, gaze distant. "And I was sick of the possibility that he might outlive you."

His face colours, and suddenly his blood is boiling and he can't control himself. "And that's why you _killed_ him?" And it's a whispered shout, but she still looks scandalized and offended and she abruptly stands, leaving her money on the table and stalking off. He knows she expects him to follow, but he does anyway. "What gives you that right? To dump your responsibilities and walk away? What could _possibly_ exempt you from the _retribution_ that you _deserve_? For being a murderer? What, just because your father trained you to murder people, it's okay –" He hastily cuts off mid sentence, because he knows that this is a line he shouldn't have crossed, that this is a point he never should have made.

She whirls, arms clenched to her sides so tightly she's shaking, and she glares at him, cold and hard and empty. "Then you'd better get going before someone find's out you've been hanging around some 'questionable' company." Her words drip with venom and ice, and he takes an instinctive step back. "I wouldn't want you to dirty your _Goddamn_ hero's ideals with my freaking _life!"_

She turns, so fast and hard on her heel that her hair whips him full in the face, stalking down the next street and out of sight. Out of his life. Again. He hates that he can still smell the jasmine spiced perfume of her shampoo.

* * *

"You're an idiot," he remarks dryly. Wally doesn't have to turn to see the despairing look on his best friend's face. He doesn't humour him with a response.

"The first time you see her in months, in _months_, Wally, and you tell her she's a morally depraved harpy?"

"She just – it had to have been planned Robin. Pre-meditated. She was _thinking _about it. She – " He's cut off by a brisk, sharp pain across his face. "_Dude! _That _hurt!_"

"Good." Robin shakes his head, disgusted. "I may not agree with it, but _God DAMN it, _Wally, I thought _you_ would be the first to understand where she's coming from!"

"What? I would _never kill _– Ow! Seriously!" He holds his blazing cheek, staring indignantly down into the flat black plastic that marks the area where his friend's eyes should be.

"You WOULD HAVE." He says it so forcefully, that Wally finds himself momentarily rendered speechless. "Remember the exercise?" The redhead blanches. "Line. You are crossing a line."

"And you never do that, right Wall-man?" And these are more lines that he's rubbing out, blithely, with the heel of his shoe, but Wally doesn't have the conviction or the hypocrisy to call him on it. He turns, abruptly, to leave the room, calling lightly over his shoulder, "You were going to kill every single one of them."

And he sinks his head in his hands and remembers his rage and his pain and his arrogance, and tries to contain himself so he doesn't vibrate straight through the table.


	2. Twice around the block

_Author's Note: I'm sorry! I know you guys are waiting for the rest of this to come out and I SWEAR I never meant to make it into this huge, long thing, and I don't _think_ that it's going to end up being too long, it's just there are so many ideas and (kind of) plot points floating in my head. So yes. Here is a brief interlude to tide you over. I'm sorry about the OC-ness of it. Just Artemis being visited by her (ex)-team._

* * *

The sun filters in lazy beams through the courtyard, bouncing off of polished marble pillars and passing through velvet green leaves. Artemis reclines against the trunk of the tree, sitting in a more reserved position than usual due to the damned uniform-regulation skirt. She pulls it, only mildly irritated, to cover more of her legs, and tilts her head back, enjoying the uncharacteristic warmth of late October. She doesn't open her eyes even when she can sense his presence, standing just behind her, mischievous and calm.

"You're doing well for someone who had to get _me_ to save their bony ass," she smirks, not even bothering to turn. To his credit, he leans against the trunk of the tree at an angle so casual, he might not even know she's there at all. "_Ha!_ Please, my ass is _not_ bony."

"I'll take your word for it; I'm not into checking out the asses of little boys." He snorts, and she realizes that today, he's watching her. He's turned, he's _acknowledged _that they know each other outside of someplace with black Ray bans or curved stone walls. She pauses, hums low and nervous in her throat, and her fingers flutter at the ends of her hair. "What?" And it's unlike her to be so self-conscious, so nervous in front of _him_ of all people – the one person who knew who she was and accepted anyway, the one person she had taken the time to _really_ get to know away from the base. (_Secret, furtive exchanges, often in the open, in crowds, passing cryptic messages when it looked like they were only mumbling to themselves)._ And now he was going to stand here, as _Dick flipping-Grayson-Wayne, _and _talk _to her?

"I'm sorry."

She stiffens, and her fingers and her breath still, and she opens her eyes just to _look_ at him. At this young boy still fresh out of junior high, with so much skill and potential and experience that no matter how long she lives (and the estimate for that number is not optimistically high), she feels like she might never catch up. And he smiles, in a way that is both somehow sincerely apologetic, and completely carefree. And she stares, swimming in the airy skies of blue, and tries to figure out what he means. He's sorry that Wally's an ass (and he should be too, even though she knows it isn't Ro – _Dick_'s fault)? He's sorry that she made the choice she did? Sorry that he knows she _had _to? Because she knows he understands. He's been a lot of things – a little troll, slightly annoying, brilliant and compassionate – and judgemental has not been one of them. Not where his team is concerned. And she knows that's still how he thinks of her, no matter what's transpired, no matter that she isn't on the team anymore, that she's not a part of it. Not _superficially_. Even if that stupid, freckled, _ungrateful, _redheaded _jerk_ doesn't want to recognize what she's done, what she _did _for _them. _For _all _of them.

Her heart palpitates and she curls up, smaller, smaller, backing into the base of the tree, and for a moment, Dick thinks he's said the wrong thing, that she's upset, that she's sore, that she's still hurt and indignant and angry. But she uncurls soon, lithe and elegant like a feline waking from a nap, and she stretches her arms out and smiles. She appreciates it. She does.

"Thanks."

And he relaxes, infinitesimally, but she notices, and she looks up at him and winks, standing up and stalking away, out into the warmth of the sun. "Back at you!" he calls out, and she waves a lazy hand in a sort of backwards salute, without ever once turning to see the soft smile on his face as he turns back towards the cooler, shadowy confines of the large, imposing hallways.

* * *

"Hi."

The voice is curt and gruff, but she knows who it is in an instant. Whirling around, she comes nearly face-to-chest with the Kryptonian teen, stiff and tall in the middle of a narrow concrete sidewalk. She's standing outside a general store somewhere in mid-town Gotham, miles from anywhere recognizable. He's come looking for her. Her lips quirk upwards in a smile, a little bit sad. "Hey, Conner."

He's come to _find _her. Her chest warms at the sight of him, and she's amazed at the sheer perseverance and _patience_ that he must have had, looking for her. An image of him wandering the streets, looking into store windows and parks and stopping strangers to see if they know her enters her mind, sudden and amusing and just so _sweet_. She doesn't throw her arms around him – that's not her style – but she brushes the top of his forearm lightly, and his lips lift in that stoic half-smile that she's missed so much.

"What's up?"

"Artemis!" She nearly starts at this new voice, bubbly and high and sweet, and for the most fleeting of moments her eyes flit up to the brunette's face. His face lifts in an amused smirk, and she flushes when she sees the Martian girl pop up over his shoulder, all swinging red hair and pale skin and adorable freckles. "Megan!"

Her eyes light up and she lets out an undignified sound of pure joy when the older girl bounds over and wraps her in a tight hug. "I guess that explains how you managed to find me," she states, eyebrow quirked at the solid young man standing beside them; spectator. He smiles. "We missed you." She flushes even more, if possible, and she allows the girl to hug her just a little bit longer before she gently disentangles herself. Her heels tap the sidewalk, nervous with happy energy, and she gestures vaguely with her arms. "Do you want to . . . go to the park?"

M'gann claps her hands, eyes sparkling, and even Conner looks slightly intrigued by the idea. "Could we? I've learned so much about them," she begins, babbling with excitement. "But I've never been to one before – the cheerleaders tend to spend most of their time together hanging around in 'soda shops'." She turns to her boyfriend. "Conner?"

He shrugs, but they can see that he looks positively thrilled (for him, anyway), so M'gann laughs and threads her arm through her estranged Earth sister's, guiding them down the street. "I think my baking has gotten much better! Batman said he didn't want any when I offered him some of the cookies I'd made, but he brought the plate back completely clean!" Artemis smiles. Every time she speaks with M'gann – mentally or otherwise – they're forever continuing one long conversation. There isn't space for awkward pauses or stiff salutations. It's a gift of her empathetic powers, she muses, that facilitates this closeness. But mostly, it's just M'gann.

The laughter that follows the image of the dark knight delicately eating the cookies while simultaneously updating the systems, or catching up with other important League work, is as light and airy as the breeze that rustles M'gann's skirts. Conner is walking behind them, silently enjoying their company, staring, unfocused, straight through store windows. The park is only two streets away.

M'gann pauses in retelling the story of the attempt made by the girls (herself included), to choreograph a dance to the song "Macho Man" in roller skates, once she hears the echoing laughter and cries coming from just around the corner. She gives a little gasp when she sees it, all rolling fields of grass interspersed with tall, leafy trees. She darts forwards, her grip on her friend's arm never lessening, and stands, staring at the small playground in the corner, colourful and shiny. Children and dogs are running through the park, playing games and enjoying the cool air. "Artemis, this is wonderful!"

The blonde smiles, and tugs on the arm containing her towards the sleek metal structure of the jungle gym. There are children climbing over and under and through it – there always are – but she makes a space for them between flailing legs and awkward elbows, and they settle on the sun-warmed rungs. "I need to see you guys perform that one day."

M'gann smiles, immediately brought back to attention, gaze snapping back from two young girls pushing each other on the swings. The creaking of the chains punctuates her sentence. "I don't think so . . . We thought practicing in sneakers would be the same as doing it in skates for some reason, so when we tried it for the first time, Zatanna had too much momentum, and when she launched herself off Rocket's back she crashed straight into . . . Kaldur. It knocked him straight to the ground." It's brief, but Artemis catches the lapse, the soft anxiety and hesitation. The story's been edited, and she can't yet decide whether or not she appreciates it.

"That must have been hilarious!" She clutches the bar above her to prevent herself from falling as she's rocked with laughter. Conner glowers beneath them, eyes never straying from the children playing fetch with a large Golden Retriever. "Not really. He was super pissed."

M'gann gasps, sweet and surprised. "No, he really wasn't! He said he understood that the girls within the group need bonding time, and he was really very nice about us crashing into him. He just asked us not to do it in the living room anymore."

Conner snorts. "He should have been more specific. You broke the containers for six different specimens in the greenhouse what? Two days after that." Artemis is by this time having problems remaining on the bar, and she lowers herself to a less dangerous position.

M'gann is indignant. "It wasn't my fault! They just suddenly opened the doors and I was _expecting_ to have a surface to buoy myself off of!"

"She tried flying away but she couldn't change directions. She hit them both in the head."

"They must have _loved _that! How did Bats react when he found out that you'd destroyed the plants?"

"They _weren't_ destroyed! They were just a little bit . . . rumpled afterwards." M'gann crosses her arms, doing a fair impersonation of one whose dignity has just been questioned, and tries to look put out. The creaking in the distance has stopped though, and she perks up just as quickly. "The swings! Artemis?"

She smiles, and jumps up, feeling like the little girl who should have been spending her afternoons in the park, playing until her parents called her home for dinner. It's not a _bad _feeling exactly. She puts her hands on a rung, stretching in front of it, before jumping down and running towards the sand pit the swings hang over. "I'll race you!"

"Not fair! Conner, you saw that, she had a head start!" She jumps on her boyfriend's back, and he bounds away from the metal cage, running to catch up.

"I knew it! Unfair advantage! I _deserved _that handicap!"

His boots skid on the sand, spraying it in waves as he struggles to control himself, and she takes the opportunity to trip lightly to the swing, and settle herself elegantly onto the warm rubber. "I do believe we have a winner," she remarks, watching the two as they walk over. She holds out a fist, haughty, and Conner smiles and bumps it, shaking sand out of his boots. M'gann occupies the other swing and eagerly attempts to kick it out, not entirely sure of the mechanics of making it move. Her forehead puckers in adorable frustration, and she focuses on the motion as she rocks sporadically side to side. That she isn't trying to use her powers to operate it is so unabashedly sincere that Artemis sits up, beckoning to Conner. "As winner, I declare that you will push us on the swings until I have been satisfied."

He snorts. "You only won because you cheated." But he walks over, slow and calm and just_ so relaxed._ She's _never _seen him this relaxed. His posture is no longer (as) stiff, as guarded, as _hostile._ He just looks . . . _happy_.

M'gann is in the air first, legs extending the arc made by the motion of her ratty seat, skirt securely tucked beneath her legs. She lets out a whoop of delight – she's flown before, of course, but this is different. It's nice.

When he moves behind her to give her a push, she halts him with a slightly bemused smile. "You look good. Happy."

"Yeah." He doesn't elaborate, and she doesn't ask him to.

When she's at the top of her arc, she sees so far – across the park, across the street. That pause, where the world hangs still and soft and quiet and she feels like she has a clear view of everything; a place when she feels that hindsight and foresight are both 20/20. She's solemn for that one moment, before her ponytail whips around and hits her hands, pushing against her skin and obscuring her view. The grin that breaks across her face is so dazzling that Conner's smile grows larger too.

"Your control these days is incredible! Black Canary's really whipped you into shape."

Connor smiles. "Yeah. We've had a bunch of one-on-ones lately, and I've got to admit, she's a damn good teacher."

"She's taught me some really interesting moves. Not that I can use them when I spar with her, since she counters them _all_, but they're really useful. Innovative." M'gann smiles lightly, hands barely encircling the chains.

Eyebrows go up. "It sounds like you guys have had a lot of one on one with her."

M'gann looks ahead, feet pumping perfectly in time. "Yeah. Everyone's been sparring with her lately. When we pair up we alternate every time, just so it's even."

"We've gotten a lot better," Conner muses. Artemis' expression doesn't change, even though she knows this is the closest they will get to telling her how different everything's become. What a big hole she leaves behind. Even though he doesn't really say it, she knows what he's asking her. And she knows what the answer still has to be.

"You guys should show me, if you ever get the chance," she says, launching herself out of the swing at the height of its motion. The rush of air is brief and so much softer, but it makes her close her eyes and imagine a sheer drop between two platforms – all the way down into a dirty alleyway. "Next time you visit."

They don't say anything, don't show any signs, but she can still feel the barely concealed disappointment peeling softly away from the Martian. She pretends not to notice.

"It's getting late . . . I still have an English Oral to finish for tomorrow . . ." She's brushing them off, she knows, and she feels bad about it, but she can't stay with them too long. Or she'll start wanting all those things. All those things they want for her too. And she can't have them.

She really does have an English essay due tomorrow.

"Wait! I just remembered!" M'gann's arm almost goes up to give herself a self-deprecating knock on the forehead, but it falters, and falls straight at her side. "I brought you cookies! They're in the Bioship, just let me – "

Artemis smiles. "Thanks _M'gann_. That's really sweet." Her hand brushes the back of the one that's fallen, loose and still.

Conner shields his eyes as he looks over the park, waiting with them for the Bioship's arrival. "I wonder if I can bring Wolf here. . ."

* * *

She knows they're checking up on her. She wants to be angry about their intrusiveness, at their interference, but she can't. She likes that they come to see her; seek her out. Make her feel loved, despite being the disowned daughter of a dead-man and a modern day Robin Hood. It makes her nights a little bit less lonely.

She still starts though, when she sees the glowing eyes peering at her from out of the darkness of her room. They each take a bed, sitting far too comfortably for people who've broken into her house at four in the morning. It's what she gets, she supposes, for stalking rooftops in the dead of night, sleepless and with too much energy to expel during the course of the day. She hadn't been looking for any action tonight – although she isn't one to walk away when people need help. Just small things – someone who's being mugged in an alley, someone who's trying to steal a car, someone who's harassing a little kid on his way home. Things that she doesn't think anyone will mind her involving herself in.

Of course, without the protection of her mask, she has to be more careful, more discrete. It's difficult sometimes, but she manages. Not as well as she used to, but she does.

"Laeh eht sutc."

The voice is soft and melodious in the muffled darkness, and Artemis feels the skin at her neck burn and cool. She touches the skin there. The blood is rubbed off on her fingers, but the cuts are gone. "Thanks, Zatanna."

"How was it?" She says, by way of acknowledgement. She doesn't clarify – doesn't need to.

"Different." Her voice is soft and a little bit empty, but it doesn't crack, doesn't die. She works hard to make sure of that. She focuses on the corner of the poster, peeling off the wall and taking chips of paint off with it, because it takes her a moment to meet the eyes of her friends. "It's nice to – well, not see you, I guess."

Even in the darkness, she can see Rocket rolling her eyes as she stands up, flicking the light switch on in the corner. The dirty incandescent light fills the room, nearly blinding her after the safe anonymity the shadows provide, leaving her exposed and so much more vulnerable than she ever was outside. The looks on their faces are neutral though – happy maybe, at seeing her again. If she were anyone else, if she hadn't been trained as she was, if she hadn't known them so well, she wouldn't be able to pick up on the worry carefully suppressed in their eyes. Just one more thing she wants to ignore.

"What brings you girls to Gotham at –" and here she squints, attempting to make out the glowing red numbers upside down. " four: thirty-six in the morning?"

"We just finished a mission in – well, it doesn't matter. We hadn't seen you in a while and we were up anyway and –"

"We could see you from the Bioship." Zatanna's never been one to skirt timidly around the point. "Figured since you were up anyway, we'd drop in."

Artemis smiles, and she's tired and weary and her eyes sag just that little bit, but the light shines through anyway. "Good thing it's Saturday, I wouldn't want any of you to be breaking curfew on a _school night_."

They snort, and soon they're all struggling to conceal their laughter, because they know her mom is probably sleeping in the next room. They're laughing more than the joke warrants, but a strange mixture of nostalgia and friendship and happiness and weariness heightens their elation, and they find they can't really stop. They gather in each other's arms and fall to a heap on the floor. Artemis' hair tangles in a puddle, gold with ebony, like ying and yang. Like nothing's really changed.

But her friends are both still in their uniforms, and she's wearing her ratty jeans, and even though she doesn't look at their clothes, doesn't mark the difference their attire makes, it skirts the periphery of her vision. A realization without realizing. They lie there, still and quiet and breathing, and all too soon they push themselves off the floor, bones weary and tired and creaking as they sit up. They gather, legs touching, breaths fogging up the air, in an intimate circle, and they talk. And listen. And they sit and just _are_. The words aren't hurried, the diction is clear, and yet she can't help feeling that they're somehow rushing anyway. They can't stay much longer. None of them can.

When the final lull in the conversation drags a touch too long, she knows. They don't say much, just turn to leave, each with a foot on the sill, making obvious marks in the thick dust. "I'm fine." And she means it, she really does – this belated response to an unasked question – but when they suddenly turn, and barrel over and hug her, she almost lets herself be sad. Almost; not quite. She hugs them back, and they're so warm in her arms that she realizes she doesn't really want them to go. Not yet.

They huddle together on her bed, and she falls asleep between them, her worn comforter draped over their shoulders and filling the air with jasmine and fabric softener. When the light ekes over the tops of the dreary Gotham buildings, her vision blurs and the bed is empty, but she can smell burnt pancakes and tea and she can hear laughter in the kitchen. And she feels really okay for the first time in a while.

* * *

The glare from the sun off the adjacent polished glass tabletop is nearly blinding. She shuffles farther under the umbrella, slouching slightly in the delicate, wrought iron chairs. It's a little bit uncomfortable – all these wedges and curls and criss-crossing lattice patterns scratching at the seat of her jeans. But it's the second Friday of the month, so she's come dutifully to the crepe cafe on the corner, and seated herself in the customary corner table at the outdoor patio, just beside the gardenia bushes. She's never really cared much about flowers, but they're pretty, and anyway, _he _likes the scent.

A beautiful, smooth, dark-skinned hand rests on the table just across from her, fingers tight together as they pick up the embossed menu. She knows he isn't reading it – they've come here together so often, even _before, _that they know everything on the menu by heart. "Nice to see you, Kal."

The smile on his face is gentle and soft, and she realizes how much she misses his presence sometimes. But he's here now, and he brings with him the wonderful calm and serenity that he had as her leader, and she lets his mood wash over her, feeling it lull her into the same peaceful state of mind. "Good to see you as well, Artemis."

She smiles, lazy and happy, and lets the scent of the flowers tangle itself in her hair. She's about to say something, when the echoing beat of heels on the cobblestone stops right beside her. Wendy, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed even for so early in the morning, stands smiling with the barest sarcastic lift to her lips. "Beef soup and clam chowder for the lovely couple?"

Artemis snorts. "Of course. Just the usual, Wendy." The dark haired waitress rolls her eyes. "Like I don't know that. What's your tea of the week then?"

Both pairs of eyes turn towards the Atlantean, deferring the decision to him. It's customary – Kaldur always chooses the tea. Artemis, well, she gets to choose something far more important. "Ruan Zhi Oolong, if you please," he smiles, handing the menu over, fingers still in tight formation. Her eyes follow them as they retract, pulling discreetly under the table. They don't resurface even when Wendy leaves.

"I've been hearing some wonderful things about you," she teases, tone both light and dry. He raises an eyebrow and looks politely inquisitive, meaning Artemis will have to follow this train of thought to the end. Her hand waves, fingers fluttering unconsciously as they move. "You know; the news, the television, and social media networking websites." He looks over, not quite disapprovingly as his eyes follow the motion of her hands, but they both know what she means. The team is still very much _covert_.

"And _he _has not contacted you about this?"

She smiles, and her face is as softly vibrant as a portrait, filled with flowers and fountains and hidden, quiet corners. "You still got leave to come today, didn't you?" A corner of his mouth lifts, and she might think he was actually _smirking _if she didn't know who she was talking to. Her fingers continue their strange, dancing pattern, feathering lightly at the edges of her sleeve. "How have you been?" And it's only been two weeks, two _measly, insignificant _weeks, but she knows better than anyone how little time it really takes for things to change. The other visits, welcome and sporadic, are unreliable streams of steady information, and she latches on to this one, constant connection with more fervent desperation than she would care to admit.

"We are doing quite well. The number of . . . 'incidentals' has gone much farther down. I believe the success rate has finally reached it's . . . equilibrium," he manages, gaze kind and watchful. His white-blue eyes are so piercing, that she wonders how much he can read in her expression. Whether or not he bypasses the layers on the surface and delves directly into her soul. "The infirmary was clear after merely two hours."

She nods. "That's good," she murmurs, and her eyes are suddenly far away, shadowed and blank and looking into a bare, concrete room. She's thankful that he's always known just how far to follow a conversation.

"How is your schoolwork going?" The silence breaks before it's even become noticeable, and she snaps her focus back to the present, eyes shifting only slightly. "It's terrible," she states bluntly. "Scholarship kids have to put up with so much garbage. And we need to maintain such an inhumanly high G.P.A. I don't know how . . . I put up with it."

His smile is gracious. "You have always been hard-working. Impatient perhaps, but you have never failed to deliver when it is necessary. Besides, I would think that being a scholarship student would be an honour." His sentence is punctuated with the chink of porcelain as Wendy sets the tea set carefully on the table. The familiar scent of fruity florals and firm green notes wafts between them, and it takes a moment for her to remember that he's ordered some of her favourite Thai tea.

"Thank you." She's almost jealous at the smile he gives the waitress as she assures them that their crepes will be along shortly.

"Ruan Zhi Oolong. My favourite." The short statement is an accusation. The lull and comfort of familiarity have always been his favourite methods of breaking potentially uncomfortable news. He pauses, before reaching up with stiff hands to pour himself a warm, steaming cup of tea. She glares at the movement, nervous and scared.

"The team roster has returned to . . . its current capacity," he informs her. He doesn't lift the cup to his lips, doesn't bother attempting to cool it. His hands are already making their hasty retreat, and her fingers flutter in anticipation and unconscious empathy. It's pure impulse. "There were some concerns about the performance of –" Her hands shoot out and grab one of his withdrawing ones. He stares at their connected fingers as she pries his digits apart, the pads of her fingertips gently ghosting over the pretty, translucent webbing. It's such a shame he goes to such pains to hide them.

He's taken aback. He knows he should probably tell her off, extract his hand from hers, but instead he sits there, quiet and unsure, and tries to even out the pulse at his wrist. "Stop that." Her voice is barely a whisper, but the breeze carries it with the soft perfume of flowers and tea, and he hears it as though she's speaking right by his ear. It's no-nonsense and demanding and unbridled and kind, in that strange, awkward, slightly abrasive way that she has. "No more hiding. Not between us."

It's an uncommonly cold day, but he finds he doesn't need to drink the tea to warm himself. He smiles, and it is so sincere and happy and kind that she flushes. She moves to drop his hand, but he captures hers instead. "Then you must not run away, either." They squeeze, briefly, and she feels all the trust and friendship the simple motion conveys. She lets them stay connected for just a little bit more before she moves to pick up her cup.

The crepes, when they come moments later, are sugary and delicious. And he never attempts to pick up the train of thought she broke when she reached out to him.

* * *

She's never been more surprised to see someone. She's so shocked, that she can't help but stand completely still, barely breathing, as though she's approaching a deer and she's afraid she might scare it off. She can't really see much of him, huddled down on the opposite side of her bed, but she can see the telltale glint of red hair from the light in the hall. She steps inside and the smooth hotel door clicks softly shut behind her. The head snaps up.

The breath she lets out is equal parts relief and disappointment. She steps over, careful not to mess up the careful pattern of feathers on the floor, and sinks down onto the bed. "How did you know where I was?" He grunts, picking a shaft off the floor and staring vehemently at the feathers. "Credit card transactions."

She snorts. "God, you're even more of a stalker than Robin."

"You're the only one I've looked up," he points out, eyebrows furrowed. She tears her gaze from the fascinating stucco pattern of the ceiling and turns to stare in a broadly curious manner at the back of his head. "Why?"

He pauses then, and she can see the muscles in his arm tensing for a moment. The silence is stretching to uncomfortable, but she's not bothered so much as amused at the telltale twitch that's beginning to pop along the back of his hand. "Because I . . ." he struggles, clearly out of his depth in this new, terrifyingly vast emotional territory. "We're friends," he tries instead, decisive and definitive.

"Oh." Her answer isn't incredibly encouraging, but she can't help it. She simply isn't used to this level of affection from the other archer.

He gestures lamely around him. "So, what is all this?"

She cocks an eyebrow. "Fletching, I assumed. Why, what are you trying to do?"

He grunts, frustrated and unamused, and discards the half-hearted feathery remains that he's inadvertently crushed in his hand. "I meant why are you staying at a hotel?"

She snorts. "_Why?_ What do you mean? The Shadows don't really have much by way of compassion or loyalty, but they're still vindictive jerks."

He shakes his head again, and she suddenly realizes that he's not in uniform. His eyes are blue, and it's so striking and different that she almost reaches out to touch his face, to hold him still so she can see them up close. But that's creepy and strange, so she sits on her hands and swings her legs.

"No, what I meant was – _How?_" He sits back against the bed, almost crushing his quiver behind him before she picks deftly at the strap and it falls to his side. "Thanks. I mean, your apartment is completely uninhabited, and your mom –" He pauses here, because he hasn't had very much practice with this subject, and he's not entirely sure what the etiquette is. "You haven't taken any of your stuff with you besides your bows and arrows, except clothes, I'm assuming, and I just – how did you do it?"

She laughs, a little bitter. "First lesson I ever had; don't let yourself get attached to useless things." She plucks absently at a silken, white thread, peeling away from the complex embroidery of the duvet, and sighs into his uncomfortable silence. "Anyway, it's not hard. I just have to keep moving, you know? At the end of the year though, with school and everything . . ." Her voice trails off, quiet and sure.

"You're going to drop out?" He lifts his head, incredulous and disapproving.

She hums a little bit. "Not really. I mean, there are online courses and things and just . . . Look, I don't want to involve anyone else. Outside of myself I mean. So I won't be . . . hanging around much longer."

He frowns. "What about us? You know we have your back, whenever you need it."

She shakes her head against the sheets, pulling hairs out of her ponytail. "Thanks. But it's dangerous, and I don't want any more blood on my hands." Her tone is matter-of-fact, but his forehead creases, and the corners of his mouth pull down even further. He doesn't blame her, doesn't judge her, and she appreciates that about him. After getting past the trust issues and the replacement issues and the strange competitive animosity, they've settled into a nice groove. A pleasant, alien place. "My mom had to relocate to the Philippines, and she's staying with some family friends for now."

He watches her, careful and serious. "Anytime you need us, we're there."

She lifts a hand, fingers curling around the ends of her hair, spinning strands of gold in the soft yellow light. "I know." Her tone is soft and sure, but she hesitates a moment too long.

He stands, gathering his arrows and his fletching. "I mean it, you know. We're there. **All **of us."

Her fingers falter, and he catches the sudden uneasiness in her posture, in her breathing. His things are already packed and ready, and he's somehow managed to make his way over to the entrance of the room. It unsettles her, that for a moment he was too fast for her to catch. She gives herself a slap on the wrist. She's being stupid, both for thinking that and for letting herself be distracted. He turns to her, hand on the door. "He'll get over it." She stiffens, and the air in the room suddenly feels too heavy, too thick to swallow. "He would have already, but he's being an ass about it." He pauses, contemplative. "He's still really mad. But mostly at himself."

She stares almost uncomprehendingly as he lets himself out. "I'll kick his ass for you if you'd like."

She's so caught up in shock and confusion that this one, kind, mostly serious, half joking comment makes the tension snap, and suddenly, she's fallen back on the bed and she's laughing. Of all the people who she'd expected to bring this up, to make this slightly better, to make her feel slightly less alone, or hated, or cast away, he had not been at the top of her list. It's strange, she thinks, how out of the worst of all their situations, they always turn it around by somehow cementing their place as friends.


	3. Hop, Step, Jump

_Author's Note: I feel really bad about how long it took me to update. Really bad. So uhh, here, have this next chapter too! Just to let you know, the previous chapter doesn't necessarily take place before this chapter; more interspersed with each other. I know this one is short, and I'm really sorry! The next one will be much longer, I promise! It was going to be a part of this chapter too, but then it just felt like it was dragging on, so . . . uh . . . yeah. _

_And on a side note, I sincerely doubt I'll be going over four chapters. I think. I mean, I also thought this would just be a two-shot, so we'll see where this goes._

* * *

The base feels empty now – strange. The team sits scattered in the commons room, around a television screen that isn't on, listening to the silence and thinking and wondering how best to broach the subject. Robin's sunglasses reflect the hard glare of the fluorescent lights, shining dancing patterns on the coffee table.

No one's seen Wally in a week.

Robin groans in dramatic exasperation, dropping his head on his knees. "DAMNIT." Everyone's so tense, so wired, so worried, and they don't even flinch. They expect it.

"Calm yourself, my friend. It is not your fault." The gentle voice of their leader floats, teasing and benevolent, just above his head. He hates that he's gone and made Wally run away. Again. Pushing too hard, too much, in that damn kitchen after his idiot best friend went and spit in the face of the person who'd given everything to save his stupid ass. And he hates that he hates the way Kaldur is still so judicious and gracious and calm in the face of another strike on the team roster.

"Just . . . God!" He springs up, flipping the whole damn easy chair over in the process. It's been tough on the little bird, they know. Tortured and dying and having two of his best friends desert the team – they excuse the tantrum, but they aren't any less surprised by it. Batman's protégé is being stretched far too thin these days.

Zatanna steps over, tender hand on his shoulder. "Robin . . ." He flinches, but doesn't move away. Her voice is firm, demanding, kind. She'll let him have his moment, but he needs to focus. "He'll come back. You know he will." She pauses, voice hopeful and low. "He always does."

The short brunet shakes his head, quiet and contemplative. "He loves this team more than anything." The lie tastes insubstantial on his tongue.

She steers him towards the others, seating him beside her on her low, purple beanbag chair. No one bothers to right the one that he's flipped upside-down.

"This little hiatus will just give the rest of us a chance to address a much more pressing issue," M'gann's voice starts, wavering and hesitant. "We couldn't talk as freely with Wally here, but . . ."

Superboy nods, glowering moodily at the glass table. If he had heat vision, it would have melted in a puddle on the floor.

The air in the room has dropped several degrees, and the solemnity is almost tangible.

"The Shadows are closing in on her."

* * *

The air is frigid, slapping him in the face as he moves; pushing himself far and farther and fastfast_fast_. He's almost got his rhythm back. It's strange, he thinks, how insignificant that is to him now. Over a week ago, he would have been ecstatic – primed and ready and finally in condition for another team mission. So why is he here, on a stretch of state road halfway between Nevada and Texas?

_One thousand twenty-three._

He's lost track of how long he's been running. That's not necessarily uncommon for a speedster, but his sense of time is warped now; distorted. He's been running and running and only barely stopping for food and necessities, and hours and days have melded together, blurring in abstract like swirling paints washed away by the rain. His heartbeat is almost starting to hitch.

_One thousand four hundred fifty-four._

He hadn't intended to start on this . . . _road trip_. He'd just been restless and worried and unrestrainedly angry, although the source of the anger wasn't yet immediately apparent. At first, he'd though he'd been angry at _her, _all entitlement and careless abandonment and haughtily jaunted hip_. _But Robin had come in and stirred emotions and ideas half-concealed in the back of his mind, sweeping brutally away at the dusty, untouched, broken cabinets that had housed his most horrifying thoughts. And he hadn't been ready to see them.

_One thousand six hundred ninety-nine._

When he'd left the base he'd really only just meant to go home, to the track, to someplace where he could sit and be free of the weighty presence of compassion and understanding and all that _damn _pity. Away from piercing gazes and soft touches and Robin's acute, jarring, insight. So he'd run, _fast_, and he'd had some form of strange misstep on the way, taking state 48 instead of 22, and he'd found himself standing outside a grim, dirty apartment building, staring at a window halfway up and feeling like he was drowning in the smog and smoke and the darkness that stared back. He hadn't meant to climb the fire escape, or swipe at the thick layer of grime that the wind and the rain had thrown like taunting missives at the small window. He _certainly _hadn't meant to pop it up when he'd found that the latch had broken, or stand just inside, breathing in the stale, musty air of unused rooms, looking at a dog-eared poster of a classic storybook.

_One thousand nine hundred thirty-two._

Both beds were made, tight and clean and empty. He'd wandered over to the one on the right, inhaling the vague scent of jasmine and fabric softener, and recalled the way he'd used to come over, to visit her, on bad days and good days and all those days in between. After picnics in state parks all over the country, or after missions, or even after school on some days, when'd he'd run all the way over after the last school bell had rung, just to talk.

_Two thousand one hundred seventy-one._

He didn't have to leave the room to know that the apartment had been deserted. Nobody was home, and he wasn't sure how long ago the tenants had moved out. Her alarm clock was still sitting on her table, plugged in and glaring at him with angry red numbers. In fact, it looked like almost nothing had been removed at all.

_Two thousand two hundred eighty-six._

The sudden wind was the only thing that marked his exit, tearing a corner of the poster off the wall.

* * *

The world is blurring by (even though he hasn't actually gone out of country, he's still not strong enough, not _fast _enough) in colours so fleeting that they're turning a blinding white, making him lose himself in the motion, in the feeling of escape and desperation and confusion. He runs so hard and fast that he almost thinks he hears the sound barrier breaking behind him, propelling him with a bang to someplace bright and empty; a place where he can exist without thought or concern.

_Two thousand three hundred sixty-eight._

He knows running away doesn't solve anything. It's something his Uncle, the venerable Flash, infallible in his wisdom, has always told him. He tries, really, to listen to him, to take his teachings to heart. But sometimes, it's easier to play deaf.

_Three thousand nine hundred thirty two._

It's the strange gift of a runner, no matter how fast, that tugs at the back of his mind. He's not counting, not really, but he can feel it; the knowledge of the distance he's covered, large and accurate. He's gone so far, running all over the country, to places that he _knows _she wouldn't be in anyway. Because it's not like he's looking for her. It's not like he's desperate to see her, to know where she is, to hold her silvery eyes with his own and see them shining and polished with emotions vast and deep and wonderful. He doesn't even see the dark, empty apartment out of the corner of his eye when he somehow finds himself tearing through Gotham again.

_Five thousand five hundred ninety-eight._

He wonders, at one point, what the team is up to. Whether they've been dispatched on any missions lately. How they hold up without the particular skills sets that have recently been absent. He feels the loneliness of being out of the loop in a detached way. Besides, they haven't really felt like _team _missions in a while.

He pushes even harder, and then he's drowning in white noise, in the colourless, weightless nothing of oblivion; blank. Pushes until he can exist outside himself, his uncertainty pulling away, snapping like a tether that can't handle the pressure, the tension, the _speed_. Until he isn't sure he can either.

He finally collapses in a corn field in a random rural town, legs burning, chest heaving, sweat pouring down his face, at twenty-eight thousand, five hundred and ninety-one miles. The stars swim above him, darting in between his regular constellations, and he realizes his vision is blurring and his head is aching and he can't figure out where he is right now. He falls back, haphazardly crushing stalks and carving out a grave in the tall, green field.

The twinkling blackness of the sky is so beautiful that he doesn't even mind the cool, dry dirt rubbing its way awkwardly into his cowl.

But it only takes a moment for his thoughts to catch up with him, slamming into him at upwards of three hundred miles a minute. He clutches his hands to his head, the force of his thoughts making him arch backwards, digging his scalp into the cold earth to try and alleviate the burning. When his head finally cools, dull ache settled at the back, he breathes out in cool, sharp breaths, panting harder than he had when he'd run fourteen times the length of the country, and is finally, mercifully still. The rasp of the corn husks and the dark glint of gold nibs surround him.

He's run long enough.

* * *

The cave is remarkably unchanged in the month or so that he's been away. Rocket's made a few more personal touches in one of the rooms, but he remains largely unaffected by it, so it's not even worth noting. He lounges languorously in the kitchen, his upper torso spread nearly all across the island to allow himself better access to the plate of freshly baked cookies that Miss Martian's left for him, to 'celebrate' his return.

The crunching of the sweetly crispy edges fills his mind; echoing around in his head and muffling all his thoughts. It's a unique pleasure that he allows himself today – the complete surrender to the sensation of sweet, delicious food. That's why he misses the first half of the conversation.

". . . empty. Her mom's already been relocated, right?"

"Yeah. How did you know she would be there?"

"I . . . may have used some magic to lure her in. Don't tell anyone, promise me. It's not exactly the most . . . ethical method."

"You're an idiot. It could have been dangerous."

"It wasn't, I checked! The apartment was completely safe . . ."

The soft, lilting, whispered tones of the two girls halts, dropping away completely as Wally passes by the open door. It doesn't bother him in an immediate way – he knows what they're doing, and he can understand where they're coming from. Even he himself isn't sure in which way his predilections lie. But the one snippet of information that follows him, despite the fact that their conversation doesn't pick up again, is that they went to her apartment. To see her. And she. Was. There.

He's a man of science; eminently practical and logical. So he isn't sure why he thinks she'll still be there, waiting in her empty apartment, when he doesn't believe that Zatanna's mythical 'lure' is even a real thing. Why he's already out the door and running towards that dank, grim building on the shadowy street, towards a conversation he both knows he needs and desperately wants to avoid. Towards something he isn't yet ready for.

He isn't sure how he feels when he stands on the street below it, and knows it's still as empty as it was every other time he's ever run by. As empty as it was when he first went up to find her. And he isn't sure why, but he allows his legs to lead him up the ladder, back into the open room, and stand, staring at the rumpled comforter and the thick marks on the windowsill. Maybe it's because he knows she isn't there, because he knows he doesn't have to stop running yet, doesn't have to stand still and think and accept and work so _damn _hard to understand. The clock on her bedside table has finally been unplugged.

She hasn't completely disappeared after all.

Later, once he's safely ensconced in his bedroom at home, he can't quite decide what made him do it. But the cylinder is unrolled in his hands, falling lightly to the floor, and he stares at if for one, two, six breaths, before he just picks up the rectangle and tacks it onto the back of his bedroom door. It stares back at him, quiet and intrusive and smelling vaguely like jasmine and dust. It's not like she'll miss the poster when she's not even around to enjoy it.


	4. Sunlight in the dark

_Author's Note: I am so sorry. I actually had most of this written, but I went back to edit more than half of it, and I ended up re-writing so much, and actually I was SO BUSY because Prom and Graduation and trying really hard not to slack off and fail the remainder of my tests. So yeah, there was that. _

_Also I lied. This is apparently going to be longer than I thought. *Sighs. Why can't I just write oneshots like normal people?_

* * *

The static is crackling and ominous. The television is jumping around, showing barely three seconds at a time (at best) of whatever program it is that he's watching, and the noise pops and fizzles in the silence of the dark, empty room. Shadow figures are hunched in corners, spread in cracks and over the worn leather sofa, only blinking out of existence during the brief respites when the television flares back into sudden, short-lived life.

He sighs, long and tortured, and stretches along the length of the worn red leather. He picks at the stain on the armrest and decides that his parents were right – this is possibly the world's ugliest couch. He'd been young when they'd picked it out, and he'd been sulking and moaning and making a general nuisance of himself while they'd traipsed around the furniture store. It had been his birthday – he can't remember which anymore, maybe sixth or seventh, somewhere in that age bracket – and he'd agonized over the terrible unfairness of the expedition. So when he'd seen the bright red couch, with the yellow piping, he'd stomped right over to it and refused to move.

It wasn't just that it had been there, and he had been tired. He'd been watching the news recently, and he'd seen the Flash, a dashing crimson figure that embodied all the adventure and marvel of the world in his adolescent mind, and the couch had been made with a very similar colour scheme.

After a scene with a sales associate and the store manager, his parents had finally relented and purchased the couch. He remembers the feeling of brash, young victory, even as his mother had leaned over the back of her seat on the way home, and told him, "Son, I hope you know that we now own the world's ugliest couch."

He kicks his foot, listless, and turns away from the snowy grey screen. He can see this any day over at the cave, thank you very much. He stretches, and grips the ends of the armrest in vexation. Another birthday spent on the world's ugliest couch. His parent's aren't even home tonight – they'd been away visiting his mother's cousin or some other such person, and they'd intended to return this morning. The snow storm had shut everything down for the day – all transportation, communication, hell, even most stores had elected not to open. And the damn zeta tubes are down.

He blows a ruffled red hair out of his face, and rises creakily off the couch, turning the television off as he passes by. He needs something to eat.

The hallways are empty and cold, but he can't be bothered to turn up the heat. The thermostat sits high on the wall, thick with dust, and he brushes by it. One of the perks of being a speedster (and there are many) – his body temperature is always satisfyingly toasty, no matter how cold it gets. (Of course, when the weather gets hotter, it's slightly less enjoyable, but he's been working on a way to remedy that. Mainly with ice cream).

The kitchen, like the rest of the house, is dark. He can't even be bothered to turn on the lights – the mood he's in. He jerks the freezer open, grabbing the tub of chocolate brownie avalanche, and sits at the homey wooden table, covered in the scuff-marks and graffiti of regular use. He grabs a spoon from the cabinet and digs in, eating away at the feeling of lonely self-pity and boredom.

It's fair to say he's disappointed. Wally West birthday parties are usually grand affairs: with presents, and food, and games, and outstanding cuisine, and good company, and delectable victuals. So far today he's woken to an empty house, cold sheets, and no birthday cakes or birthday breakfast or even just _food_ – birthday or otherwise. And right now, the company sucks.

He's already scraping the bottom of the tub on one side when he hears the knocking. It isn't that he hadn't heard it before; he'd just imagined it had been the blustery wind throwing blocks of ice and snow and maybe the occasion tree branch, in a full-on assault of his home. But the sharp rap, the decisive hollow echo, is definitely courtesy of a much warmer body. He darts up so fast; his spoon hasn't even dropped into the tub by the time he's at the door.

In the space of time between being there and twisting the knob (because to do so at speedster pace is just _rude_ – not to mention that it typically causes the entire thing to become unhinged), his mind is already racing and euphoric. _His parents are home!_ They'd somehow overcome the sheer impossibility, the danger, the inconvenience, to see their son on his birthday. His heart races a million miles a minute, and he knows that even though they won't have presents, or cake, or birthday treats, it doesn't matter. They're _home._

He means to ease the door open, he really does, but the wind is strong and vehement, and it rips the door right out of his grasp, throwing it violently against the wall. He barely notices. Dripping wet, shivering from the cold, hair thrown up in a twisting hurricane of sharp, icy strands, is an angel of death. He'd recognize her anywhere, he sees her enough – in his dreams, in his thoughts, imprinted in a grotesque negative against the inside of his eyelids – but having her standing in front of him makes him realize that it's not nearly enough.

He's staring at her so blatantly, so stupid, so _slow_, that he's shocked when the icy packages are shoved into his open arms, still lifted in preparation for the family hug he'd been expecting. They're damp and distorted, but he can still read the words on the red, cardboard packages. Strawberry cheesecake pudding cups.

"Happy birthday, Wally." Her voice shivers and breaks, punctuated with the chattering of teeth and bones. He moves to the side immediately, discarding the pudding on the nearby hall table and ushering her indoors. He's shocked and surprised, and his emotions are still a hellish vortex of hurt and anger and disgust and confusion and desire, but Wally West is every bit a gentleman and his sense of chivalry and responsibility comes first. He closes the door behind her, struggling against the wind, and the jagged shards of ice and sleet are so hard and sharp and cold that he nearly flinches. He wonders how long she's been outside.

Her clothes are soaked – penetrated with the thick, relentless pelting of sleet and snow, and she's shivering so violently he thinks she might stand a chance of vibrating through the wall she's leaning on. Her jacket is off and a towel wrapped around her shoulders before she's even had the chance to take off her boots. "Thanks."

He watches her, shivering, and he wants so badly to ask what she's doing here, why she came, how far she came from, how the _hell _she even got here, but he doesn't. He nearly thinks this is just a lucid dream – a hallucination induced by another ice-cream coma – but his hallucinations are usually more warm, and happy, and less heavily clothed, and having a girl in his hallway suffering from hypothermia does not exactly bring the romance. Still, he whispers her name with reverence and caution; as though it's a charm that might somehow make her disappear. "Artemis."

She looks up at him, beneath lashes thick and heavy with frost, and she's about to answer when she gives a violent sneeze. "Damn." Her voice is hoarse. He shakes himself, and offers a pale, freckled hand to help her up. He's not responding to the situation as gallantly or as helpfully as he'd like to – the entire thing is just a kick to the teeth – and it stabs at his sense of moral obligation and general compassion.

"You're going to get hypothermia in those clothes," he observes. "You can use the upstairs bathroom to get cleaned up, and changed." He moves to help her stand, but her legs are already going numb with cold. He frowns, and picks her up, bridal style. The familiarity of having her pressed against his chest is combated by the way she shakes, by the coldcold_cold_ skin, by the utter lack of response. She just leans her head against him, soaking up his heat, grateful and reserved and so different from the fiery girl he'd held before. He's too unsettled to speak after that.

He drops her off, on the tiled floor, switching on the light and making a quick trip back into the hall. He needs to turn up the thermostat after all.

By the time he's found some clean, _freshly laundered_ sweats and an old t-shirt, the water's already running, and her wet clothes are all hanging off the railing, damp and cold. She's wrung them out so they aren't dripping anymore, but he notices with a racing flush that her underwear is hanging there too. He goes back into his room to look for some _really clean _boxers.

He's waiting in the kitchen when she finally comes down, ice-cream packed away and spoon haphazardly tossed in the sink. Her clothes have already been transferred to the laundry room, but the thought still lingers in the back of his mind. So when he sees her, hair braided and off her face, coming into the kitchen in his clothes, it's difficult to stop the images of lacy straps and silk ribbons. Even though the shirt is baggy, and leaves her shape ambiguous, he can't help the blood rushing to places where it really isn't wanted.

He slouches over on the chair as she walks around the table, pushing a steaming mug of hot chocolate in her direction. She picks it up appreciatively, hands wrapping around it in an attempt to leach the heat straight into her bones. "Thanks again, Wally." Her voice is soft and still hoarse, but more gentle now, more calm. The seductive lilt that she had when she used to talk to him still hasn't quite disappeared. "Are your parent s home?"

He can't help the heat rising in his face. "No," he chokes out, spreading himself over the table as though that will help him hide. "They've been gone all day. Why?" He can't keep the slightly petulant note out of his voice.

She hums, rustling around in the cupboards behind him. Her firm butt slides briefly against his shoulder, and he shivers involuntarily. "Because that seriously sucks. And also because that means you haven't eaten anything decent today." She walks casually over to the cabinet she knows holds the saucepan, lifting it out with a slightly unnecessary amount of pomp and circumstance. "You should put the pudding in the fridge, by the way."

He starts, having completely forgotten about the pudding cups, soggy and dripping on the clean, hall table. He curses, racing around and depositing the cups in the cool white container, mind momentarily calmed by the mundane activity. When he sits again, he's unruffled, focused, in control of himself. _All _of himself. And the shock of having her turn up in the middle of a snowstorm on his birthday has finally worn off.

He crumbles the heap of soggy red cardboard in his hands into a ball, tossing it theatrically towards the recycling bin beside the kitchen counter. "Where did the pudding come from? None of the stores in town are open today." His voice is neutral; carefully constructed with solid tones and mild curiosity. The only answer for a moment is the pan sizzling as she throws bacon on it, already at home.

"The stores off 23 are open. Mostly convenience stores, but it's your birthday and it's rude to show up empty-handed," she explains, as though his apparent lack of education in etiquette is the most pressing topic of conversation. He watches her, and the sounds of fat frying are the only sounds between them. He wishes he could believe that she'd braved ice and wind and possible hypothermia just to see him on his birthday.

"What are you doing here?" It sounds dull and far too blunt, and for a moment, it feels as though he's somehow turned his words into a tangible weapon. Her stomach clenches involuntarily. He doesn't mean to sound unwelcoming or cold, but the words are out and he isn't going to expend the energy needed to soften them.

She doesn't turn from the pan; doesn't even stop the minute ministrations she applies to the food. She remains quiet though, and he isn't sure if she's ignoring his question, or if she simply has no idea how to answer. He wants to press the issue, but he isn't sure how, and the smell of food is driving him in small part to distraction. When she puts the steaming plate in front of him, he doesn't bother giving it the evil eye before he digs in, fork already in hand. She sits across and watches him, holding her mug between her hands. She isn't eating.

It always made him a little bit uncomfortable when she just sat there, watching him eat. He'd asked her about it once, expecting her to say something slightly sarcastic and demeaning. She'd shrugged instead, shoulders lifting in a gentle slope. "I don't know. You just . . . you look really happy." She'd paused, turning to look at him mischievously. "Besides, when you know people are watching, you slow down a little bit. Makes it kind of less disgusting to be around."

He slows, placing the fork gently on the table beside him, plate unfinished. She doesn't comment, turning her gaze instead to the steam rising from her cup. Her knuckles show white. If she thinks she can freeze him out, distract him and make him forget, then he can do it too. He sits back, the tantalizing scent of food wafting up at him and making his mouth water. They stare at one another across the table.

"Thanks for, uh, coming," he starts lamely. He's never been able to break her, and the silence is making him uncomfortable. He doesn't say it, but they're both more or less operating on the assumption that that's the reason she's sitting there, across from him right now. To visit him on his birthday.

She pauses, and the tumble of thoughts in her mind cascade and collide in a violent landslide. She isn't sure what she wants to tell him. He's let her in, even though she remembers the way his words had dragged in sharp nails down her heart, angry and judgemental, when he'd found her months ago. She _knows _he's still mad at her – the sudden swings in attitude, the cold, detached conversation. But _damn it all to hell_. She didn't have a choice.

_Silence. The room was dead silent. That was never a good sign. The heater, the ventilator, the fans – everything was off. And she didn't even hear them coming._

"It wasn't something I arbitrarily decided," she says, and although her voice is calm, it sounds like a hiss, an accusation. He stares pointedly at the plate, unsure what she's talking about anymore. He doesn't press the issue, because he's had enough experience to know what tactics make the conversation run south.

"I know," he offers. He won't look up, and the absence of startling green in the warm kitchen is jarring. "You must have been thinking on it for ages."

She stares at him, hard, daring him to meet her gaze, to acknowledge what she's really talking about. She's done running from him, even though she knows he can keep going without ever turning back, nothing but an orange blur on the horizon that she'll never catch up to. If she doesn't pin him down when she gets the chance, she never will.

"What? You'd rather I just impulsively decided?" Her words are acerbic. "You KNOW I can't do that! Not for something so important."

He starts at her sudden change in tone, but his stays neutral, even lightly confused. His fingers tap incessantly on the polished wooden table. "Why not? You're the queen of snap judgements."

_Bang!_ The plate jumps, and several slices of crispy meat slide off, staining the table with rivers of fat and oil. He's startled into glancing up, and the look in her eyes makes him immediately regret making such a rookie mistake. Her eyes have always been so expressive. They burn into him, holding his stare, forcing his gaze, and they are unabashedly fiery and fierce, and to an extent so unnoticeable as to be almost insignificant, they are hurt. He's shocked and mystified and guilty all at once, so he doesn't move when she stands, her chair falling beneath her in the process.

"_Goddamn it, Wally! _You _know_, you _know why _I . . ." her voice cracks, and she whips around, stalking angrily into the hallway. It takes him a moment before he moves, but the sounds of the hall closet whipping open are enough to startle him into action.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" His voice is sharp and loud in the empty hallway, despite the chaotic background noise provided by the roaring storm outside.

"Just relax! I'm not going to _steal _it, if that's what you're worried about," she bites out, forehead screwing up in frustration. His mom's old yellow winter jacket is loose on her shoulders as she shrugs it on. "I'll pass it along to Robin, or M'gann or. . ." Her words cut off. "Whatever. You'll get it back."

He starts, surprised. "You visit them? You've been _talking _to them?" And he knows it's unfair, because up until now, even he's pretty sure he hadn't wanted to talk to her, or see her, or acknowledge her at all. He knows he's in fact been acting contrary to that; running far and fast and wide. But he's finished with lies, and he's done lying to himself. "What the hell?" His words are quiet and trembling and so, so livid. "You go visit _them_, but you won't come see me? Not a line, nothing? WHAT THE HELL?" His voice explodes in the darkness, but she doesn't even flinch.

Her hand is on the knob before he can react, and she throws the door open, inviting in whirling torrents of frozen water and biting air. "You made it pretty clear I wasn't on your list of favourite people anymore!" Her words are snatched away by the wind, and she makes determined, decisive strides farther and farther down his walkway, her boots sinking in laughably tall drifts. She doesn't look back.

Wally curses, the word dying in the ferocious weather. "Artemis!" He runs out in his socks, and stands, blocking the end of his driveway. She's already started moving forward, and she's too unbalanced to stop. She crashes right into his inhumanly warm chest. And then reaches back and punches him in the shoulder. "MOVE THE HELL OUT OF THE WAY, WEST!" The force of the blow is in no way impaired by the cold.

He rubs his shoulder, scowling. "Freaking – Just come back inside, idiot! You'll catch your death out here." The sharp pellets sting his face and his ears and his neck, and he's soaked all the way through. She glowers, completely incensed, and turns to walk around him. She doesn't get very far before he's turned and picked her up, slogging slightly more slowly through the snow than he had when he'd come out to get her. He still makes it inside, with the door shut, before she's had time to register what he's done.

"You ASS." Her voice is hoarse, and he thinks he can hear the tell-tale growl starting in the back of her throat, but she makes no move to go outside again. A small victory. He sneezes, and glances down at his soaking wet clothes. He glares at her, debating, then grabs her again, throwing her boots against the front door and dumping the yellow jacket on the hall table. It was already wet anyway.

He dumps her unceremoniously on his bed, and stands, chest heaving with frustration, and frowns down at her. Her borrowed clothes are a little bit damp on one side, but she'll dry out in a matter of minutes. "Don't. Move."

She snarls at him. "Don't think you can tell me what to do." She moves to stand, but he grabs at her hand, palm wet and cold. She stares down at it, and he shifts beside her, gently tugging her back down. "Please." She scowls. He knows when he gives her the choice; she always works in his direction. Even after months of silence and cautious reservation, that much hasn't changed. She hates how well he knows her.

He's barely gone ten seconds; dropping his wet clothes in the laundry, taking a quick shower, changing. When he re-enters his room, though, her mood has shifted drastically. He isn't sure why until he notices what's drawn her gaze. "When did you take that?" Her forehead puckers in bewilderment, and he can see the barest glint of alarm in her eyes. He shuffles guiltily away from the Alice in Wonderland poster, feeling far too much like the stalker ex-boyfriend that he desperately doesn't want to be. He throws out a half-assed answer, trying and failing nonchalance. "You weren't using it anymore."

She hums, suddenly unsure, fingers fluttering against her legs before she seems to come to some sort of a decision. She turns back, a little slowly, and shuffles over to his bed, dropping herself on his deep green sheets, still wrinkled and messy from the morning. She stares at him expectantly, expression serious. He stares back, nervous and bemused. "What?"

She rolls her eyes, and suddenly it feels like the tension has lifted. Like things are back to normal. Like they've snuck up to his bedroom after another mission or dinner or something, and they're just going to hang around and enjoy each other's company. "You're the one who said you wanted to talk. So talk."

He sputters. "What? No, I . . . I meant I wanted you to talk!" She lifts an eyebrow. "I'm talking." But she freezes, just a little bit, and he realizes she's scared. She's afraid and worried and still so unbelievably brave. Because she's still here, and she's ready, and waiting, and she'll tell him if he asks. He stills, then walks over _slowly_, dropping on the bed beside her. His hand falls on the sheets beside hers, and he doesn't move to take hers, because he isn't sure that falls within the realm of possibility anymore, isn't sure he can claim that privilege, but she doesn't move away.

She takes a deep breath, and her gaze loses focus, staring vacantly at the poster he's hung up on the back of his door. "I couldn't just do it – I didn't even really want to." Her voice is soft, quiet, tentative. He doesn't tap his fingers, doesn't fidget, just nudges his leg against hers. "But he was just, _always_ . . ." she pauses, and swallows thick in her throat. "The Shadows are particular like that. They don't like to leave a job unfinished. Especially when it's a matter of personal pride." Her voice is empty, blank, and her eyes have lost their lustre. "It wasn't a choice I wanted to make. But it was him or you."

She withdraws, arms circling her chest, as though she can block out the desperation and hurt and anger and conflict that had set in months ago. He can see her, sitting there, physical and real, but he's certain that she's millions of miles away – too far to reach. And she looks so impossibly small and fragile and he can't even touch her. His foot kicks fitfully against the bed post.

"It wasn't much of choice," she whispers, and her voice is steady and strong, but he realizes that tears are coursing down her cheeks, shiny and foreign. "And I just – And then** you**!" She shakes her head, and a hand comes up reflexively to wipe the tears now, unrestrained and messy and free. "To think that – to tell me that it was just because – because I _could_, because I was just sick and twisted and maybe that I was more influenced by the Shadows than I'd led you to believe –" He grabs her hand, wiping her tears away with the pad of his thumb instead.

"That _wasn't _it!" he whispers fervently. He gently swipes his finger across her cheek, soft and sweet. "I was mad yeah, but I was stupid and angry and it wasn't really at you. I mean, I can't understand killing _my _father –" She swats his hand away, irritated and upset.

"Of _course _you can't! You, Kid Flash, Mr. Wally West of the congenial West clan, son to the perfect and loving and happy Mary and Rudolph West! How _could _you understand?" She's not angry, he realizes, just sad. Just unbearably hurt and confused, a little girl abandoned in the world by the safety and familiarity of true family. He isn't sure whether this goes against appropriate ex-boyfriend etiquette, but he reaches over and pulls her against his chest anyway, stroking her beautiful, golden hair. Her tears soak his shirt and she stays, so he assumes it's okay.

"I'm sorry," he says, and this, apparently, is too much. Too much forgiveness, too much understanding, too much, too much, too much. Because she _does _expect him to be difficult and obstinate and stubborn. She _expects_ him to work against her, to argue and yell and be judgemental and cruel. She shakes her head, hands fisting in the front of his shirt and burying her head against his shoulder. "But he raised me anyway," she whispers, and the sound is so broken and strangled and hopeless that he can't control himself anymore. He plants gentle, feathering kisses against her crown, and makes comforting sounds in her hair. She pushes against his chest, violent and sloppy. "You can't! You can't Wally, you can't, you can't." She shakes her head, turning away from him, breathing laboured and eyes downcast. Her voice is a weighty whisper, carrying and hiding in the corners of his room.

He withdraws, but his arms don't remove themselves from around her waist. His voice is low and gentle. "Why not?"

She turns, hands tugging restlessly at her braid, the gold as shiny and bright in the dark as he remembers. "Because. You're not my boyfriend anymore."

He scoffs, moving to plant a gentle kiss on her cheek. She cringes and moves back. Bright green dims, and she can see the heartbreak as clearly as though it had happened yesterday, can remember the way it had looked, under the harsh lights of the hallway, as she'd walked away. She averts her gaze, focused instead on tracing the pattern on his old t-shirt, tugging it slightly off her shoulder. His arms withdraw, releasing her, and he slides off the bed.

"You can . . . I'll set up the guest for you," he starts, motioning vaguely towards the hall. She doesn't respond, and he turns and walks out of his own room, dejected. She curls up minutely on the bed, and listens to the sound of snow being hurled against the windows, howling in tortured empathy.

_Cold, shattered glass scattered on the floor. Dozens of black shapes, fluid, spilling through the window and up through the vents and hiding in the suddenly darkened hallway. Two arrows in the right shoulder, pain and blood. Out the door, breaking through the window in the hallway, dropping off a flagpole, hitting the concrete, _hard._ Snowdrifts break the fall, stunt blood loss. Hike to an interstate convenience store, dress the wound. Pudding cups in the fridge beside the check-out. Blood loss and stupid decisions go hand in hand. _

"Wally," she calls out, and it's tiny and strange and she half-hopes he doesn't hear it. But the soft, padding footsteps proceed back towards the room, and she looks away when he stands in the door. It doesn't matter; he's unable to meet her face anyway. The silence stretches past uncomfortable before she fidgets and tangles her fingers in her hair and says, "Can I just stay **here** tonight?"

He's baffled, to say the least. He wants to sit with her and be with her and make up for all that time they've been apart. He wants to touch her and know that she's really here, instead of waking up with his fingers tangled in strands of air and sunlight. He wants to tell her what he really means when he says sorry. But he tried to kiss her and she wouldn't let him, and he doesn't know how things stand right now. He prefers the before, when he was shocked and she was standing, wet and cold, outside his door. When they were still just estranged exes, and the boundaries were there and he at least had some idea of what lines he couldn't cross. But he still can't say no.

"Sure."

They don't even change – just drop on the mattress, a strong, freckled hand pulling the sheets from underneath them and arranging them in some semblance of warmth. Artemis rolls towards the wall, cocooned and safe and feeling so, terribly guilty for ever showing up at all, ever coming to his house, ever risking him. But she's gone so long without his warmth.

When he wakes in the morning, the bed is cold. A single strand of gold lies on the pillow beside him, and he laughs, bitter and angry and so disappointed in himself. He plucks the hair and winds it between his fingers, just to remind himself that it wasn't a dream.

* * *

The gym at Mount Justice is well-equipped; training dummies lined along one wall, weights along another, with mats and bars and obstacle courses and all manner of other exercise paraphernalia. The most prominent feature, however, is the large sparring ring in the centre, all tight red ropes and movable platforms. Robin especially appreciates these features, using them to great advantage as he and Wally spar; rigging the machine to restrict his friend's momentum and alternately creating leverage or temporary shelters. He cackles as a platform springs between them, causing the redhead to run directly into it. He's most annoying when he's in his element.

The bright green eyes aren't even annoyed when they look back up; gaze unfocused and distant. It's obvious from just a glance that he hadn't really been paying attention anyway. In fact, it's a wonder he hasn't run into anything else. The acrobat frowns from his perch on the platform, suddenly forcing himself into his friend's field of view. He shouts and backs away, stumbling into the ropes just behind him, arms pinwheeling comically. He doesn't even berate him.

Now the brunet knows something is wrong. He flips lightly over, landing on the ropes just beside his friend's head, amused at the way the short strands of his hair are already getting caught in the tightly twined threads. He's not disappointed when he tries to sit up, yanking several hairs out in the process. He winces, but instead of the exclamation of pain he was expecting, his voice is matter-of-fact and curious instead. "They know, don't they?" He turns to his friend, eyes bright and wide and expectant.

Sometimes, Robin hates how easy he is to read. He pretends anyway, gaze flickering wildly away from him, unseen beneath his domino mask. "Who? Knows what?" He cocks his head, messy raven hair hanging around his face, further obscuring his already elusive eyes. He already knows what must have happened. The only available place to run, in a closed world, shut down by snowstorms and terrorists. He saw the hotel room.

Wally scoffs; he sees right through him. He knows he knows, knows he's pretending, because when has the Dark Knight or his ward ever missed anything? He elaborates anyway. "The Justice League knows where Artemis is." It's the first time he's spoken her name in months and it falls, familiar and kind and only slightly halting, from his lips. It's not a question anymore.

Robin's face remains impassive – a stone slate in the bright lights of the room. The smell of sweat and exertion and hope stings his nostrils, and he turns away. "Barely." The word is heated and heavy, pushed between his teeth like a rock that's cracked right through.

Wally turns, then, watching Robin's shoulders stiffen, watching his hunched posture, his feral stance. He's _pissed_, and he doesn't know why. "What do you mean? Aren't they keeping tabs on her?" He shrugs, arm lifting in the air in useless gesticulation. "I mean, for discipline or punishment or whatever?"

Robin hops out of the ring so quickly, Wally wonders if he's going to just walk away, avoid the question. He stands though, just beside the door, and pauses. He can barely see the glisten of sweat pouring down his neck. "They're already punishing her."

He doesn't know what's happening until it's already happened, and the edges of his friend's cape are whipping around the corner. He doesn't think he's seen anyone damage the wall of the cave to such an extent (besides Superboy), and he stares in amazement and bewilderment at the crackling stone and plaster pieces as they fall to the floor, exposing the damaged pipes and electrical cords underneath.

* * *

It's Superboy, of all people, who explains it to him.

"What did you expect? They don't approve of that . . . method of problem solving." Solid and clear – the clone's speech is completely unaffected, and Wally wonders briefly if the lack of emotion is indicative of his friend's stance on the subject. He feels a strange surge of _something_, and it takes him a moment to realize that it's _protectiveness _of all things. He tries not to let it creep into his voice or his expression when he asks, "What are they doing?"

His friend stiffens, and it's all the more noticeable because of his solidity – because of his muscles, his power. He has the fleeting impression that he might coalesce into some sort of giant rippling vortex of density and anti-matter, and he flinches imperceptibly away and back again. "Nothing."

His brow furrows, the red burrowing into the folds of his forehead. "What do you mean? You said they were –"

"That IS what they're doing." The muscles are rippling, twitching in an involuntary reflex of agitation and repressed aggression, and the speedster takes a quick side-step, in case Superboy decides to relieve himself of some of it. The emotion in his voice is cautionary, and Wally, at long last, has finally, _mercifully,_ learned at what point he should probably stop talking.

His strong fingers flex, digging into his arms as they sit, crossed and tight against his chest. "God Wally, you need to wake up! There are repercussions – Every action has an equal and opposite reaction, or, whatever." The voice is beginning to grate, sandpapery and coarse as the anger and frustration start to bubble to the surface. "The Shadows – they were_ – are – pissed_. Sportsmaster is – _was_ – one of their best operatives. They didn't appreciate –" He stops, breathing deeply, and closes his eyes.

He's been distracted recently (for _months_, but he'd been getting better, he'd been improving, he'd been slowly climbing back up to his peak level of performance), so it's forgivable if he's just a little bit slow nowadays. But now, his mind races over a hundred miles a minute, and he can feel the brutal force of his full faculties slamming into him as his thoughts catch up. "The Shadows are hunting her."

Superboy nods, terse, neck tense and veins jutting out in sharp relief, straining against the skin. His knuckles show white, and Wally can see him desperately trying not to damage the wall beside him. The self-restraint is appreciated, but he can understand the desire. In fact, he might feel a little bit better if the clone breaks the wall away, chipping it to pieces, chunk by chunk. The glorious image of dust flying, or plaster falling to the floor, of the loud echo of destruction and anger pulsing through the base dies in seconds, but his mind is calmer now. Clear.

"I want in."

He's grateful for the fact that his friend doesn't bother trying to dissuade him, trying to pretend he has no idea what he's talking about. He understands, now, what the secret meetings at the base were. The whispered words, the long, meaningful glances exchanged just above his head, just out of earshot. The strange undercurrent beneath every debriefing, every interaction with the League, every slightly resentful touch, every flinch, every repressed look. He resents, almost, being left out of the loop, but he can't deny that he would have been a hindrance, at the very best.

"Keep yourself under control. And **don't **tell _anyone_."

He nods, barely registering the words, question already falling from his lips. "Where is she?"


	5. Seconds Apart

_Author's Note: FINALLY FINISHED EXAMS! SO HA! And yeah, sorry about my terrible update time. Also, I'm going camping, so the rest of this probably isn't going up until I come back. But sometime this week! For sure! (Well, this week meaning up to seven days from today)._

She wants to kick herself – she's so on edge, she's so suspicious, so alert, but she's forgotten just how much she has to watch her back. She can't believe she didn't see this coming. She doesn't want the anger and surprise to show, and thankfully, at least that much of her training hasn't yet failed her. Her face is blank and empty, the start of a flush dying at its conception. Her eyes are cold again.

He shuffles nervously from foot to foot, unsure how to broach the subject now that he's finally managed to catch her. His hair is free, waving in the wind and shimmering in a monochromatic spectrum under the lights of the bright afternoon. His clothing is drab and ordinary and so _un-Wally_-ish, that she almost forgives herself for not seeing him. But not quite.

He plucks nervously at the prickly argyle sweater vest, the loafers on his feet pinching his toes and feeling severely scuffed at the soles from the three story drop from the fire escape and into the adjacent alleyway. The grey slacks that he borrowed from Kaldur are too long in the legs, and the rolled cuffs at his ankles are already coming undone. Her critical eye bypasses all these insignificant details, but the way they zero in on his freckles, just under his eyes, does nothing to ease his nerves. It's not like he'd be able to meet her gaze anyway.

Her foot doesn't tap, her eyes don't twitch, but her left pinky curls minutely into her palm and he knows she's impatient. She's getting ready to bolt. He reaches out a hand to stop her and she doesn't flinch but he does, burned by the invisible barrier that's been erected between them, sealing her off from him. He can feel his heart drop from his chest, dangling precariously over the pit of bile in his stomach.

"So," he starts, and the whisper is both strong and quiet and he still can't look her in the eyes. "Can we talk now?"

* * *

_The night is soft and quiet, and she's perched in the most precarious of positions. If he wasn't watching her, crouching on the miniscule escarpment just underneath the stone gargoyle, he never would have believed it possible (a belief he would have to rectify in two weeks anyway, when Robin dangles from it like he's hanging from a playground jungle gym). _

_He ordinarily wouldn't have payed her much mind to begin with, but she'd popped up out of the dark and nearly made him lose his footing on the ledge, and a slight hitch in her breath – like the beginning of a laugh – had caught his attention. And she looks so happy and breathless that before he realizes it he's staring._

_Her eyes are bright and shining, and for a moment it looks like each glittering star in the sky has a twin in her light gray orbs. She's not smiling, exactly, but she's happy and her breaths are coming in sharp, excited gasps, and for a sudden, striking moment, Wally thinks he can understand how people can spend hours upon hours capturing youth and beauty and love in celebrated marble sculptures. _

_It's a strange feeling, and it takes him so by surprise that he isn't quite sure what's going on. His heart rate is faster than he ever recalls it feeling, and he can't seem to tear his eyes from her face. He knows he should still sort of be feeling that resentment and distrust and slight hostility (not that it has anything to do with the fact that she caught him unbalanced – a klutz – forever destroying his opportunity to make a debonair first impression). But she's so young and fresh and new, and her naïveté isn't quite on the same lines of those as the sweet Martian girl, but it's different and sweet and shy. It's in these rare moments, in the thrill of adrenaline that it opens up, blooming into pure exhilaration and happiness._

_And him without a camera._

_The moment is broken when a shadow breaks free of the opposite building, and peels distractedly towards an open alleyway. A mental whoop of excitement, and she's somehow managed to rally the entire team, feelings of that first thrill and anticipation bubbling up from weeks ago, the memory of their first team venture dredged up from beneath the stifling monotony of the stake-out. A line across the roofs, and she's swinging out into open air, legs secure beneath her and hair a rippling ribbon in the wind. He can't see her face, but he knows that her rare, free, open grin is making its way across it._

_It's the first time he really thinks he could get to like this girl after all._

* * *

Her eyes are dull when he finally works up the courage to catch them. She doesn't say anything, just turns and walks away, heels clicking minutely in time with the beating of his heart. It doesn't take him any time at all, this round, to follow her.

Her lips barely move. "_Talk_."

His fingers fidget and he wishes he had more time to say his piece, but he can tell from her stance and her stony gaze that she's prepared to run at the flick of the wrist. He pretends not to see the way her hands are clenched at her sides, pressed fiercely against her perfectly sculpted thighs. "We want to help you."

The scoff that she offers in response feels like glass against his skin. It worries him that he doesn't know what she means by it – she doesn't believe they want to help? Doesn't think they can? Or worse, she pities them, because she already knows what the outcome will be.

Her voice is low and throaty and dead, and every vibration feels like an intruder crawling around his head. "The League –"

He can't stand it.

"**Screw** the League!" The whites of his knuckles stand out against his already pale skin, differentiated only by the light dusting of freckles. "We **will **help you! Whether you want us to or not!"

The sound that escapes her lips can only be described as a laugh, cut off prematurely. It's only the briefest of sounds, but a speedster can drag anything out for an age. He heard it – crystal clear despite the bustle of urban wildlife and roaring metal beasts. And he knows he should be offended, but he cradles it in his mind, protecting the memory. It's the sound of wry amusement, of the results of pranking, (or failing), Robin, of dazzling with wit and clever repartee, of saying '_You're an idiot, but I love you anyway_.'

And it bolsters his confidence, renews his purpose. And she can see it. She curses herself for the slip, but it's been such a long time since they'd talked at all, and she's afraid that the withdrawal comes with heavier penalties than she'd prepared herself to pay. This inadvertent slip up is proof enough of that. She wants to walk away, to lose him in the crowd, but she can't make herself break away.

When did she let herself get so _weak_?

"We don't agree with the League," he says, and he's somehow managed to contort himself so that he's walking _casually _beside her, face lifted into the tiniest of smiles. "You're one of us. You're _family_." And she can tell by the way he throws the word out, by the weight and the meaning and the sincerity, that he means it. That she's as important as blood – maybe more important, because she remembers the way Robin had found her, sitting in the back of the Bioship after she'd revealed herself, relieved and weightless and euphoric, and told her, "_It doesn't matter. You didn't get to choose that family, but you chose __**this**__ one". _She knows he doesn't mean anything bad by it, but for the briefest of seconds her father's mangled, bloody face flashes in front of her eyes, and even now, the only thing that curls in her stomach is the cold stone of resolve.

"We protect our families," she agrees, but he can hear the unexpected shift in her tone, the change. He nearly trips on the pebble underfoot.

"Yeah." Adamant, strong, persistent. But his eyes are narrowed behind those borrowed, oversized black frames. "We do."

"Well," she starts, and suddenly the teasing lilt, the soft tones that he remembers from dimly lit nights, is creeping into her voice. "I won't try to stop you. God knows nothing will make you guys let up – even . . . . Threat of suspension from the force?"

"We'd NEVER leave you." He says it so powerfully, so vehemently, even though he knows she's just teasing. He can see it in her face, even though he can't quite read all the hidden lines. She really does believe in them. "We love you, Artemis."

She stiffens almost imperceptibly, but he's never been too slow to catch it. And he knows that he's crossed a line somewhere, but he doesn't want to take it back. Because she knows what he really means when he says it, and even though the reception is tense and hostile, he wants her to hear it anyway. She's still loved.

She bites her lower lips so hard she can taste blood; can feel the words pounding against the wall of flesh, begging to be let out. But she can't say them. She can never say them. She turns to him instead, smiling at him as they walk along the crowded street, and for a moment he forgets the shadow(s) following overhead and behind and around them, both an abstract metaphor and physical threat. Her eyes are luminous again.

"Thank you, Wally," she says, and even though it's whispered he can hear it, almost projected into his mind. He's caught so easily in the tides of warmth and emotion that he's far too slow. She's already turned and disappeared into the crowd, and even when he climbs up the side of the streetlamp, or up the fire escape, he can't find her again, the rest of the words he'd carefully prepared and cultivated and rehearsed ebbing into the oblivion of chaotic thought in his mind.

He stands, leaning against the cool metal of the streetlight, sighing as it flickers into life above him, isolating him and his shadow from the bustling mass of moving bodies. The only thing he really holds onto is the small pearl cushioned in the debris of his disappointment and frustration – an interrupted laugh, a soft voice, her lingering perfume.

When he turns to report back to the cave, he walks uninterrupted by the shifting black shapes, entering the tubes with a flash of light and the comfort of ignorance.

* * *

It's her fault. All of this is her fault. She involved him when she first joined, involved him when they _got involved,_ and _continued _to involve him even after she'd left – even when he'd seemed _determined _not to have anything to do with her, when he'd been content to leave her alone, to remove himself from this _entire __**damn**_ situation – and she'd gone and imposed on him on his birthday and forced herself back into his life and put everyone in that house in danger. She circles back and watches him, his un-tucked shirttails flapping dejectedly against his (admittedly) gorgeous back and legs, and waits. She doesn't approach, doesn't make contact – gives no sign at all in fact, that she's there.

It's a relief to know she hasn't completely lost her touch.

She knows where they are. She hasn't spotted them, hasn't looked for them, but she hasn't forgotten anything from her days training in their ranks. There are still so many things that she exhibits that remain characteristic of the Shadows. And the subtle art of non-verbal, completely coherent threats is one of them. Once the beam of light swallows him up she turns and delivers a message that has always, indisputably, been hers. To their credit, they don't flinch away – probably aren't surprised at all, in fact. But they know what it means. With Jade, it was always Sai swords, thrown right between the legs at an angle close enough to catch the fabric to the wall.

With Artemis, it's always been an arrow grazed against the head – an undercut on one side – and embedded less than five inches from the eye. And the message hasn't changed.

They flick the ends of the arrow, arbitrarily pulling out one feather. They don't bother going after her – they don't need to. They know both parties are well aware of each other. All pretense of hiding has long since disappeared. And really, as long as things remain so . . . _amicable _between them, then they're quite willing to comply.

_Don't touch._

They almost want to laugh out loud, but shadows don't laugh. So they just lift their lips in a twisted approximation of a smile, their fingers releasing the feather. They're already gone by the time it's floated to the ground.

* * *

She's no stranger to loneliness, guilt, fear of disappointment. They're companions that she's carried since her childhood, held tense; awkwardly. But they aren't the most comfortable escorts in a hostile world, and she's afraid that the strain might be getting to her. She's taken risks she isn't comfortable with, and she isn't sure whether it's the result of time taken away from training, or spent away from her team; her friends.

That's probably why she does it.

It makes no sense, really, since she'd spent all that time trying to get away from them, trying to protect them, to keep them out of the line of fire. But now she's surrounded by crowds instead of flurries, and the sudden crush of warm bodies, of people who she could talk to, people she could have known, makes her feel just how isolated she really is.

She wouldn't notice, wouldn't let it register – she's already so busy, she has to keep on top of everything, everyone,_ them_, has to figure out where they are, what they're doing (and this is probably where she's most grateful for her unconventional upbringing, for the insight it gives her into their movements, for the connections that she can still exploit, for the schedule she's slowly shaping and filling in and following).

Except for the fact that she knows that _he's _there. He's looking for her, following her, and she's spent days and weeks and months keeping him from ever realizing just how close they really are. The drone of blurring, pounding steps is one long, drawn out note, always reverberating just under her feet. The brick buildings beside her and behind her and in front of her offer a multitude of hiding places, a variety of escapes that could prevent him from ever even _seeing _her. And she wonders why she doesn't quite feel relieved when the enthusiasm and energy chasing her – the subtle melody in the buildings and the street and the air – suddenly start to wear themselves down.

She hesitates, at the mouth of an alley, with the long, drawn out beat steady but so much fainter, and it's a moment too long. He doesn't catch her, but he sees the tail end of a long string of gold whip in stark contrast against the roan red of the brick building, disappearing into the darkness of an empty alleyway. And he stands in the middle and he has the strangest feeling that there are jasmines in the air.

The next time, she can feel the energy pulsing up through her soles, building and building to a crescendo of heat and expectation. And she does it again.

* * *

He knows she's letting him do this. He's moving fast and fast and faster, running to catch up with the girl who's crouched, still as stone, on the ledge of the building. Flying footsteps, pounding heart and obnoxiously bright costume do not make for exemplars in discretion, but she hasn't made any move to run or hide or fight him. And he hasn't bothered with stealth mode.

When he stops, just barely skidding up to the ledge and managing to maintain his upright position, neither person moves, opting instead to stare blandly at the distorted lights of the city. He can see the Daily Planet in the distance, the bright metal globe topping the building lighting up in ombre as the sun washes over it, shyly stealing over the horizon. He breathes in the crisp morning air and thanks God for friends like Robin, who somehow manage to keep on top of everyone in the world.

He throws a sly glance at his silent companion and watches the shifting, molten gold moving like smoke in the breeze. He remembers, barely weeks before, when he'd woken to the sounds of his parents bursting through the solid wooden door, heavily blockaded by snow, and he'd stumbled downstairs still half-asleep and with a strand of golden hair wound between his thumb and forefinger.

Afterwards, he'd been too twitchy, too jumpy, too frustrated to eat (much), and he'd burst through the door and into the snow, sending whirling torrents of flakes flying as he shot off, in pursuit of someone he realized he might never catch. Those drastic, desperate outings in an attempt to locate her had all culminated in severe sleep deprivation and a score lower than a _95%_ on his math final. Even when he finally returned to the Cave, hope dragging beneath his heels along the scuffed concrete, he hadn't really stopped trying. And, distracted in training, he'd finally managed to pry the beginnings of a plan from his equally aggravated friends.

It's that last, crucial move forwards that affords him this chance. Truth be told, he's more than nervous, more than confused at her acceptance, her patience. He expects her to shoot off at any moment, limbs perfectly in line and gracefully controlled, but she merely shifts a little bit beside him, perhaps from the biting wind now blowing towards them.

"You've been keeping tabs on me." Soft and un-accusing and maybe slightly amused, her lips turn up at the edges. He laughs his admission, and wonders silently how Robin is keeping her updated when all methods of communication except the direct have been cut off. It's not like he's the designated messenger or anything, but he knows for a fact that the other team members haven't had as much . . . _opportunity_ to seek her out. They have patrols and missions and duties piled on by their mentors, and while she isn't technically a League concern they're making damn sure that their younger counterparts don't have the time to make her a priority.

He's lucky his uncle has always been so understanding. Maybe a little bit irresponsible, or too carefree for League standards, but at the very least a good man. Wally's heart swells and he remembers the admonishments, the discipline, for all of those poorly planned and spontaneous cross-country tours, and then the way the words had melted away as the cowl had slipped off, and he had given him a warm hug and said, "I'll think of something to tell the League."

And just like that, he had been given free rein to pursue and convince and (attempt to) protect the girl who had once trailed heated kisses on his skin in the cooling breeze ushered in with sunsets and lapping tides.

He knows he hasn't come too far with his personal mission, but he's come hurdles farther than he had those maddening, solitary weeks on his own. At least she's here – close enough to touch, though he's far too cautious and timid to take that step again – and he can count the lashes on her cheek and see the ridge of a new scar peeking up over the neckline of her shirt.

"You've been doing well," he remarks, sounding vaguely (_insultingly), _impressed, and she makes an undignified sound in the back of her throat and hits his shoulder far too hard for it to be friendly. "Are you saying you didn't think I could handle myself?" Her eyebrow quirks, receding towards her hairline, and she's secretly impressed when he doesn't stumble over his words and quickly backtrack, attempting to smooth over the offending remark.

He smiles instead, although it doesn't quite reach his eyes, and makes a vague, sweeping motion with one hand. "I didn't think you'd ever really had so much competition before." There's a pregnant pause, and for a moment it seems like he wants to say something more, to address the elephant standing awkwardly on the roof behind them, but he holds his tongue instead. He wouldn't really know what she'd been used to before, anyway.

"It's not that bad," she says, and her tone is still light and easy, but there's something ominous behind it; a threat. They both know that before too much time has passed, things are going to escalate. He wants to say something, something comforting, but he can't find the words and he isn't sure he would know what she needs to hear anyway. That makes him feel worse than anything yet has – he's no longer her effortless comforter, her perfect complement.

"If it ever becomes too much –" he starts, but there's a commotion across the street and the percussive sounds of trashcans being knocked askew in an alleyway, and she's already swinging down a zipline.

"Have my back?" She shouts behind her shoulder, without fully turning around.

They both manage to hit the ground at the same time.

"Always."

* * *

Their meetings are irregular at best.

The next time he sees her, it's in the middle of a Penn state country track, and she's huddled under the metal bleachers and crushing a glove warmer in her hands. It's the last place he would have expected to find her, especially since his friend's Intel had placed her somewhere five miles south barely two hours ago. It's been nearly three weeks since their last little reunion, and just seeing her again after all that endless searching and hoping and desperate wondering makes his mind cool its fevered pacing.

"Took you long enough," she says by way of greeting, and he offers her a package wrapped in foil and sits slightly too close to be polite. Steam rises from the package as she peels away the reflective wrapping, and bites into a still-warm, juicy burger.

"God, this is _heaven,"_ she manages, between mouthfuls of succulent beef. "Where'd it come from?"

"Well, the beef comes from local stock – if the advertisers are to be trusted – and the buns are shipped from the corporate –" He's cut off when she kicks him in the ankle, gently (for her), and he smiles as she glares, unwrapping his own delectable morsel. "Best burger joint in the state."

"Damn," she sighs, glancing wistfully at the now empty wrapper. "I'm going to have to head down there one of these days. I assume I'll need directions?"

"Or you could just let me take you." It'd been meant as a joke, but now that it's hanging in the air, he realizes he means it. She crinkles the foil fitfully in her hands, but otherwise doesn't say a word. "I'm serious. One trip, twenty minutes tops. Doesn't close for another – what is that – _hour_ at least."

He looks at her, but she's staring at the clouds of breath easing away from them, a collective smoggy haze betraying their existence in the otherwise quiet, empty world. It gets so dark, so fast, even in these early spring months.

They're quiet for a moment, until he opens his mouth and she stands, abrupt, and walks out of the minimal shelter the benches provide. He wants to start after her, is about to, when she turns and waves and says, "I owe you a meal, West!"

And he stuffs his hands in his pockets and shakes his head and walks away.

* * *

Wally West is a scientist. He can't help his analytical mind, his tendency to look for patterns in data, to make connections and apply them. And after all these random sessions, he's developed a sort of algorithm for them; a set of rules that governs their interactions.

1. Despite the Intel, despite the help, despite the_ speed_, Artemis dictates whether or not they'll meet when he comes for her. It's a truth that weighs at the backs of both their minds; never vocalized, only felt. He never complains, never objects, never raises a stupid argument or suggests that they determine their 'dates' well in advance. He just keeps running, keeps looking, keeps going out and listening and trying to track her down.

He spends the equivalent of weeks wandering around the country, trying to pick up her trail and following only vaguely accurate locations, using mostly guesswork and determination, wandering in pursuit of a disappearing angel.

When he catches sight of her, the elation, the slight, undeserved feeling of triumph, rises, bubbling from the worn soles of his feet and spreading in quick jumps to the rest of his body. Fatigue, exhaustion, frustration, momentarily melting away.

2. She's shutting him down. Certainly, they can talk about the team, about the weather, about how she's doing and how he's doing and other random, mundane things, but the cold wall of indifference is like one of those moving platforms in the sparring ring at the Cave. Brutal and sudden and unexpected – right when he thinks he's making headway, he's getting somewhere, he's _reaching _her – it comes up in full force, running into him and knocking the headwinds out of his tentatively inflated sails.

And he can't stop. He knows the reason she puts up these walls, the reason she stands and walks away and won't let him follow. Because he opened his damned mouth and ruined their brittle peace with desire and wistfulness and all those other stupid emotions he'd never in a million years admit to even having. Not to anyone but her.

And she doesn't want to hear it.

So he inevitably ruins the conversation, the company, the updates and memos and general friendly exchanges with his own selfish need to make things personal. To consider things on a different plane. It's not as though he can't, grudgingly, in the back of his mind, understand her hesitation, her distance. It's that he doesn't want to. Why can't she accept their help, their love, their support? Why can't things go back to the way they used to be?

But he knows the answer, and he knows it isn't even something that she alone determines, and it's stupid and aggravating and horribly, terribly weakening, and he feels useless. So he opens his mouth and spoils the moment and then they sit in awkward silence and when he tries to start again the entire thing is over.

There's no going back.

3. None of their meetings have ever exceeded a certain time limit – ten minutes. It's entirely too short for the amount of time and effort put into finding her, meeting her, seeing her, being with her, but those are the terms of the arrangement. Even for that one, precious, exceptional session during which he managed to be just as cold, and distant and strange – to the point of feeling himself burning with dangerously shelved feelings and hope and optimism – she'd cut him away after those ten minutes were up.

He'd tried, valiantly, futilely, to make her stay, to drag their time together on, longer, but she'd shook her head and turned to the ground and her eyes had refused to open. Those perfect, shimmering pools had swum, briefly, with ideas and feelings and other things he couldn't read, surfacing from the solid concrete, and he'd realized that perhaps this was the only method that would work. But she'd turned on her heels and run and he hadn't tried to follow.

Aside from his uncle, she was the only person he thought he might never be able to catch up to.

* * *

The satisfying _Crack! _of bone as she whips the butt of her bow into the masked man's face, makes her cheeks flush with the too-long illusive excitement and satisfaction that she'd missed since her run had begun. She almost smiles when she gets him on the ground, his friends already scattered or incapacitated around him, and places a heavy boot firmly on the small of his back. She can feel his stuttered breathing through her soles.

"It's really rude to take things that don't belong to you," she says, her words clipped and disapproving.

"Yeah," the yellow and red blur agrees, zipping over within a second of tying up his accomplices with a mysterious amount of tensile, military grade rope. "How would you feel if we took your super clichéd robber's mask?" The sentence isn't finished before it's already dangling in his hands. "Oh. I guess this is how it feels."

She smirks, snarky laugh bubbling to the surface, and just barely prevents herself from hitting her idiot (temporary) partner on the arm. She releases the arrow instead, driving it with her fist directly onto his back and releasing the restraints. She pushes the speedster with her off the ledge, not sparing the snarling, grimy middle-aged face a second glance as they fall, briefly, before landing on the unstable metal fire escape.

"God, that never gets old," she breathes, the blissful shining in her eyes directed at the inky blackness overhead. He doesn't say anything, just watches, the ragged mask hanging limply from between his fingers, as her face comes alive. He remembers these moments, and to see that look on her face again – she looks over when she catches him staring, and shoots a pointed glance at the dark fabric in his hand. "Souvenir?" she asks, half teasing.

He smiles. "Maybe." It's not like this is one of the most dangerous or interesting missions they've ever had together, but he thinks right now, maybe it's the most important. It's been so long since they've fought together.

He waits for the brush-off, the disappearing act, the subtle ninja art of vanishing into nothing that both she and his best friend seem to have perfected, but it doesn't come. She's just standing, beside him, breathing in the same misty night air and watching the stars shine and dance and laugh.

He's waiting and watching and he's still so surprised when she spins on her heel and vaults over him, tapping him firmly on the shoulder. "Tag," she laughs, half whispered. "You're it."

He can't orient himself fast enough to turn and catch her as she runs past him, but he puts on that extra burst of speed and tails her, watching her hide and finding her and playing those old city-wide games of mashed up tag and hide and seek.

He finally stops being able to find her as the sun peeks over the tops of the buildings, casting a golden red sheen on the world, and envelops him in the warmth of an unwritten day.


	6. Second Time Sucker

She spits red on the dirty brick wall, making her first personal mark on the disordered graffiti covering it, made in differing shades of red from many hostile, dangerous sources. Her head whips around with no delay, her fist already driving into the hard, solid stomach of one of her assailants. They make no noise, but the slight incline of their head means that she's probably broken one of their lower ribs. She hopes to God it really, really hurt.

She spins, kicking two heads together at once. It's the fury, the intense, self-training, or the disorientation of these specific attackers that makes it possible. Normally, she'd never even rank that much. The others have used a variety of clever manoeuvres to move just out of the line of fire – close enough to attack and defend, but not in any danger of being taken down. Not that it would matter anyway. Even the upper echelons of the Justice League have difficulty managing to lay their hands on these operatives.

Yesterday, they'd had no plans to attack her. In fact, the confrontation today had been expected only in another two weeks, at the very least. She'd read the signs, she'd understood their messages. There was no mistake.

Truthfully, it was a combination of factors that had brought about this encounter. A long stake-out – a prolonged mission during which the entire goal was simply to keep a very close eye on one young girl – was bound to be uneventful, unexciting. And they were restless. But, they were also incredibly disciplined; they didn't make a move that wasn't asked of them, didn't put the mission in danger for a cheap thrill, to elevate the excitement. That didn't mean, however, that they weren't above helping things move along on a shorter timeline.

So they'd provoked her. They'd spent weeks, months, attempting to get her to come with them. There really wasn't any reason they couldn't ask her forthright – it wasn't as if she didn't know exactly why they were there. But all their talking, all their meetings, all clipped, polite, icy conversation had just led to a standstill, an impasse. And really, they weren't very patient people. But then, you didn't have to be if you'd always just taken what you wanted anyway.

The difficulty was that she'd been trained _with _them. She knew some of them, not by _name_, (because no one in their organization really had one that they could share), but by title, by style, by balance. She could read them with nothing more than a structured glance. That was a skill that had been taught to all of them, but who no one else had ever really, fully cultivated and mastered.

So they tried a less direct approach.

And they got her at their doorstep in no time at all.

They hadn't even done anything. They hadn't needed to. Their mere presence _there_, of all places, had been a larger, most prominent threat than anything they could have shot through her window. So within half an hour of their being there, she'd been standing beside them, hair tucked beneath a black skull cap, and wasting no time in kicking them straight off the roof.

And then she'd walked to the ledge and dove over the side of the high school herself.

She wasn't surprised when she found herself with them, three blocks away in a grungy, dim alleyway instead of crouching on the heated sidewalk outside the large, metal double doors. And she wasn't surprised that before she opened her eyes, she was gripped by the arm and twisted over someone's back, kicking away from the wall and into their skulls by pure reflex. Apparently, they'd thought she would be rusty and out of practice.

She was insulted.

* * *

She barely dodges the kick to the back of her head, forcing her to crouch forwards and level the swipe at shin level instead. Less effective for her purposes, but useful enough. The attack sends the individual backwards, just barely avoiding knocking into their accomplices. The number of assailants, it appears, hasn't gone down at all.

She pants, frustrated and angry that they've managed to wear her down so much. She's the epitome of human ability – strong, fast, with endless stamina and endurance. Or nearly endless. She's calm, centred, focused, but she can't seem to land any permanent damage – reduce their numbers – and it's not for lack of trying. She's kicking and punching with enough force at this point to kill someone, and she hopes to god this alleyway remains isolated from the rest of the city, because she cannot afford to start looking out for civilians at this point.

The kick to the side of the knee finally incapacitates (barely) one of the more run-down masked attackers, and she has enough time to give a little sigh of relief before a knife is thrust in the direction of her forehead, and she's forced to doge roll out of the way. An uppercut that's dodged with ease, and a kick that meets empty air, and she's nearly ready to tear her hair out from aggravation. She's distracted enough that they manage to land a kick to her ribs, fracturing at least three.

She spits blood in their faces.

This isn't going well. She'd intended to at least take down four – just enough to create some breathing space, some room to run as fast and as far away from this city as possible. Now the clean air is smoggy with blood and heat and sweat and she's starting to feel its effects. And she's still in the same damn alleyway. She thrusts an arrowhead directly into someone's kidney, and feels disturbingly, sickeningly satisfied when the blood begins to gush from the wound. Too bad that sort of injury really isn't enough to make these stupid kamikaze warriors stop attempting blows.

She kicks another in the head, feeling it making actual contact this time, before she's grabbed by the ankle and swung against the wall. Again. The brick dust that she can feel catching itself in her hair is dark with dirt and blood.

She lands a spinning kick against someone's ribs, and launches herself upwards using their chest as a springboard, just barely managing to knock another mask off the fire escape landing, claiming that territory as her own. She needs a breather.

They can sense it too, how tired she's becoming, how frustrated, and they're taking advantage of it, pressing forwards. A shape behind her before she has the chance to react, and they've kicked her off, reclaiming the rusted metal rungs and forcing her back into the fray. She's caught before she hits the ground, and flung against a rusted back door, the acrid smell of metal and blood and sweat burning in her nostrils. She's yanked up by her hair, her skull cap knocked off with her balance, and not for the first time, she thinks it really isn't practical to have it so long. The strands strain against her scalp as she's yanked roughly to her knees, her muscles tired and her mind burning. Maybe she should just cut it all off.

"Don't even _think _about it."

She doesn't expect it – doesn't think anyone could see them from the mouth of the alley, a writhing mass of moving black shapes (herself included). But the flash of sunlight darting into the dark (and for the first time, she realizes just how late it's gotten), blurs by right beside her, and she can feel the wind and the warmth and the sudden relief of her hair floating down her back.

"What the hell are you doing here?" She manages, a little breathless.

He turns around, incredulous. "Are you seriously asking me that right now?" She doesn't respond, merely tracks the lightning movements out of the corner of her eye as she disarms another attacker. "_You're _the one getting beat up in an alleyway three blocks from school!" He grunts as someone trips him, sending him hurtling headlong into a _very _solid chest. "What are _you _doing here?"

"Getting mugged," she responds dryly, her fist spinning into the back of someone's face, hair askew and obscuring her vision. "Hey, have you seen my hat?"

"PRIORITIES, woman!" He yells, sending a barrage of fists into someone's side. "I'll _buy _you another damn hat later! Hell, I'll give you one of mine!" She scowls, annoyed, and her next kick has a little extra force behind it. "My damn hair is getting in my face!"

"How many of them _are _there?" He shouts, typically ignoring her very valid point. "Upwards of twenty, I think," she shrugs casually, aware that he probably can't see it. She's surprised then, when she feels the warm, solid weight of arms beneath her, and she's deposited on the bottommost rung of the fire escape. "Hold tight."

The whispered words are ripped from her ear by the sudden, violent wind. The large whirling mass of air presses against her, forcing her to the wall and nearly tearing her from the dirty metal. The pressure of it rips loose bricks from the mortar, throwing random bags and shiny aluminum garbage cans into the sky. She tries to force her eyes open, tries to watch, but the dust and the dirt and the air beating against her make it impossible to do.

When the world is quiet again, she opens her eyes, taking in the destruction – bricks ripped from walls and one or two of the ladders twisted into abstract shapes. A lone dagger sticks firmly in mortar, and she reaches over and pries it out, the blade shiny and dotted with blood in her hand. Otherwise, the alley is entirely empty. She's glad this is just the city's smaller shopping district – residences are at least a block or so over. Still – "What the _hell _was that?" She punches him, hard, and he looks over at her, baffled and confused, the brief pride in his eyes quickly burning out.

"Excuse me? I just saved your ass! You were obviously _way_ out of your depth here –" Her eyes narrow dangerously, but he doesn't let up. "You _needed _help." She turns, sudden, sharp, and despite the tall, stiff posture, he can see the stilting steps she's taking. "I want to help you." The words are feather light against her ear, and she's exhausted and tired and she can't really help the way she ends up falling against his chest, his arms already catching her against him. His heartbeat is _fastfastfast_, and suddenly hearing it again and feeling it is such a _relief_ that she stops worrying and wondering and panicking, just for a moment. Her eyelids are heavy.

He whistles, casting a brief glance around. "Damn. I really shouldn't try this sort of trick in enclosed spaces." And she laughs because no, he really shouldn't, but it was worth a shot and it was sweet of him to try and she's just so tired she doesn't even care much, anymore. "Bet hey, I got 'em all, right?"

She nods sleepily against him. "Yep. You got 'em all."

She's already asleep when he picks her up and jets her back to his house, too tired and a little bit too bruised to notice the way her breath is smothered during the lightning fast trip.

* * *

She can feel the tugging, gentle and soft this time, the same way her sister had once taken her in her lap and tenderly brushed her hair. The sigh is quiet and happy, and much to her vexation the feeling immediately disappears. Her eyelids stir, still heavy and warm, and her clear grey eyes focus on jade ones, oddly deep and dark with worry and amusement and something strange and foreign and familiar all at once. "Why'd you stop?"

The mumbled words are either ignored or incomprehensible, and a strong, freckled hand places a cup of chamomile tea on the coffee table beside her – right next to a short, sharp dagger. She shifts, disentangling herself from the blanket cocoon, and extends a lightly bruised hand to grasp it. "Thanks, Wally." She sits up a little bit, taking small sips from the scalding drink, and glances around in a slightly sleepy, detached manner. Red and yellow leather crinkles beneath her, and she smiles a little bit as she takes in a dark green stain on the armrest. "Why do I always end up at your house?"

He shrugs noncommittally, and offers her a lopsided and borderline lecherous grin. "You know you just can't keep away." She shoves against his chest, but even when he moves back, her hand stays, feeling the solid warmth of him through his thin t-shirt. Her eyes flicker lightly over his face, and he stiffens, but her gaze is constantly moving – trying to take all of him in. "Art –" But he's silence by the intensity in her eyes, in the roaming, focused, _necessity_ and it takes him less than a second to figure out what she's doing.

"I'm fine." She nods, even though she can see the beginnings of a bruise purpling over his shoulder, and he claps his hand over hers before she can jerk it away, giving it a quick squeeze before releasing it. "But hey, if you want to see what's under the shirt, all you have to do is ask." The wink is obvious and outrageous and he only barely skirts around the couch before hot tea is flung in the place where he'd been standing.

"Ouch," he intones, hands clutched comically against his heart. "Is that any way to treat your knight in shining armour?"

She snorts. "You aren't a knight, but you were certainly shining. You know, they can probably see you from space."

He laughs. "Hey, I like to spread the gorgeous as far as I can."

She wants to make some sort of cutting comment, some sort of scathing remark, but it's just such a _Wally _thing to say that her breath catches in her throat. She's here at his house, again, drawing a giant red target over him and his family and everyone else that she's ever cared about. "I shouldn't be here."

He stops, arms falling to his sides, and approaches her, cautious and nervous and afraid of making any sudden moves. It's stupid, he knows, but when he was younger his uncle had taken him to a state park and they'd gone on a hike in the middle of the day and they'd seen a baby deer. It was beautiful – surrounded by green and soft yellow light, and he'd wanted to hold it. It was childish of him, but he'd charged up to it expecting to be met with docile acceptance, and it had turned on its hind legs and bolted. He knew it wasn't exactly the right lesson to take away from it, but what he had really thought he'd learned that day in his little nine year old mind, was that beautiful things had the capacity to disappear at a moment's notice.

His fingers barely ghost over her shoulder. "You should probably lie down, you fractured three ribs."

She huffs, arms crossed and empty mug dangling from her fingers. "_I _didn't do anything." She whips around, and the lack of hair in her face surprises her. She plucks at the fabric wrapped around her head. "Is this a . . . _flower headband_?" The look on her face is so incredulous that he's nearly offended. He frowns. "You said your hair was getting in your face, and the last time I tried to tie it you hit me with your chemistry textbook." She rolls her eyes. "You made a mess of my hair! It took M'gann and Zatanna two hours _together_ to untangle it."

The mention of old teammates though, grounds her, and the friendly banter is stopped cold. "Where are your parents?"

He shrugs noncommittally. "Out. They're at an overnight conference or something upstate. Why?"

She sighs, relieved. "Nothing. Just, why am I always at your house when your parent's aren't home?" He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. "Hey, it's not my fault if you have an addiction." The slap she gives him barely grazes his arm, and she lets it trail down the length of it, fingernails gently scraping and raising a trail of goose bumps. When she gets to his hand, she tugs on each of his fingers, one by one, slowly, gently, and then grabs his whole hand to get him to sit beside her.

"What, trying to sleep with me again?" And it's half teasing and half wistful and very soft and heavy and unsure. She frowns imperiously and points at the television. "Turn it on."

He snorts, smothering the conflicting disappointment and relief, and bats her lightly against the head. "Awfully demanding, aren't you, for being a guest in someone else's house." She turns to him, and pouts in that way that he'd never really been able to stop falling victim to, and says in a low, raspy, pleading voice, "I'm injured."

He turns away as fast as he can and fakes a small laugh, trying to hide the redness rising in his face. "Sure, sure." The slight, buzzing sound of static and canned laughter explodes in the darkness of the basement, and he ruffles her hair (mostly out of habit), and turns to climb the stairs. The panic she feels is so deep and real that she's ashamed of the way it leaks, slightly, into her voice. "Where are you going?"

He turns, all indulgence and soft smiles, and gives her a look that's a little bit too compassionate for her taste. "You're injured." The door closes creakily behind him. She isn't sure, now that she's alone, whether or not she should shadow him, make sure he's really all right, or whether she should take the opportunity to escape, to lead them away, to stop pulling him behind her, right into the thick of things. She shouldn't be here.

She tries to rise, and normally she'd dash up the stairs, out into the street, with ninja-like stealth and speed, but the pain in her side slams into her, blindsiding her and forcing her back to her seat. She's apparently done more than just fracture her ribs. The soft _click _of the latch as the door swings open forces her to huddle back against the couch, underneath the blankets, trying desperately to pretend that she's still _okay_.

"The Doctor of _love _has arrived!" He sing-songs, sauntering into the room with a blue and white plastic box swinging by its handle. The squeak of plastic grates on her nerves, and she scowls. "What's that?"

"I figured if I had you here at my house, incapacitated, then I might as well forcibly administer some first aid." He shrugs, popping open the lid with a flick of his thumbs, hinging top banging audibly against the low wooden tabletop. She squirms, pressing back into the couch, and grabs fistfuls of blanket to cover herself with. "I'm _fine_, Wally. Just leave it."

He shakes his head, clucking his tongue like a mother hen. "Uh uh uh, you know how it works – my house, my rules." She frowns. "Well, if you _want _me to get out."

The light touch of his fingertips are grazing her exposed, still slightly bleeding shoulder before she has any chance to react. "Artemis," he starts, voice low and firm and reminding her far too much of the gently whispered promises he'd made months ago, in the dark. "I insist." And she's going to struggle anyway, but his eyes have finally, _finally _found hers, and she's trapped – anchored. "Please."

He starts to pull the old, frayed woolen blanket from her grasp – another item from his obsessively tended collection of Flash memorabilia – prying it gently from white knuckled fingers. Her heartbeat quickens and her breaths are shorter, but she's silent as a tomb; mysterious, still, in her pain and her need and her obstinacy.

His hand moves to skirt familiarly against the hem of her black sweater, and she takes a small, hesitant breath. "Just leave it." But the sweater is moist and warm and he's suddenly _scared_, of all things, and he grips the fabric between his fingers and pulls it off with a motion too quick to follow. His breath still catches in his throat when he sees the ruby stain seeping down the side of her white tank top; a blooming rose against the stark blankness.

"_God," _he breathes, and it's the one word that's barely choked past his throat. She's bled before, of course, but these aren't all new wounds – they're some old ones, some scabs and barely healed scars that were hastily attended and easily broken. He wants to say something else, wants to berate her for being so _damn careless_, for being so pigheaded and independent and for letting herself get hurt. But he knows he's being single minded and maybe biased and he doesn't say anything else. Her fingers skirt around the pulse lines at his wrist, and he knows she wants him to stop – wants him to pull the shirt back down and hide the scars and the blood and the bare, broken skin – but they tremble and flutter and don't make any move to restrain him. So he lifts the whole thing off (discretely refusing to focus, to look, at the sleek, black lines of her bra), and turns to the kit behind him.

They settle uncomfortably into a tense silence, with Wally patching up her cuts and scrapes and bruises, the only sounds between them those of the shuffling bandages and ointment caps. He traces her scars with disinfectant, and the barely audible hiss between her teeth skirts just over the top of his head. Finally, moving along a gash down her side, he eases her torn pants off her legs and flings it to the side, to rest on the mounting pile of bloodstained fabric. Normally he'd blush, but he's so earnest, so focused, that it barely even registers.

She's surprised that his lack of reaction makes her feel so hollow.

When he's finished with the superficial abrasions, he returns to her chest, gently prodding at her ribs to gauge the damage. She doesn't make a sound, instead staring resolutely, desperately, at the unfinished wooden ceiling, and tries not to remember any of the other times her clothes have ended up on the floor of his basement.

When he's decided that she's sufficiently patched up – cutting the loose ends off a long gauze bandage – he stretches, muscles and bones cracking from the hour and a half he's spent stooped on the floor. He leans on his hands, eyes averted, and she curls on the couch and makes no move to grab her clothes.

She'd always been way too comfortable when people caught her in her underwear. He remembers the first time he'd chanced upon her in this state of undress – she'd been in her room at the cave, changing out of her uniform after the mission with the floating snow machines (far too slowly, he might add), and he'd burst in, in a flurried frenzy of skidding feet and flailing limbs. She'd just eased out of her pants, and she'd been standing there, in the middle of her room, stripped down to her skivvies. He'd winked, and thrown out a suggestive "Wow, and here I always thought _Green _was your favourite colour." But she'd just arched an eyebrow, and smiled infuriatingly, and all his blood had travelled due south. He couldn't look her in the face (or anywhere else, really) for three weeks after that.

When they'd started dating, and dressing wounds together (because Wally had some silly notion that she gave herself half-assed first aid at _best_), she'd shed clothes without compunction, and he'd been, needless to say, very, _very _flustered. The first time it had happened, he'd blushed and looked away and had been entirely unsure how to handle the . . . _situation_. But he was dressing wounds, for god's sake, so he had to man up (but not too much), and just finish what he'd started. He _had _asked her though, in hesitant tones, why she was so damn comfortable sitting around in her _unmentionables._

She'd arched an eyebrow and given him a very Wally-ish grin, and said, "What, you don't think I can work it?" And he'd known it was a trap and he stumbled in anyway, unable to help himself. Stuttered words and burning face, he'd mumbled something to the effect of "societal standards" and "issues with body image" and "self-confidence". And then she'd laughed and told him that he'd already seen her in her bikini, how was this any different? And really, with the sleek lines and smooth fit, it could almost be the exact same thing (barring the lacy straps and silk ribbons). And her voice had taken on a bit of a lighter, teasing tone, and she'd asked him why it bothered him so much.

She'd never really stopped teasing him about it.

Even now, limbs arranged comfortably on the buttery leather, in her _ex-boyfriend's house_, she has no problem with her lack of attire. He doesn't make a move – isn't sure if this is _her _making one – just sits and stares blankly at some boring nineties sitcom. But the itch is starting in his hands and in his legs and he can feel her, so warm and solid and _real,_ behind him. He stands, suddenly, and her head arches towards him, watching, as he circles the couch to the linen closet at the back. A soft, fleece sheet is thrown over her head, muffling her senses and closing her off from the cheesy lines and strange background music drizzling from the speakers.

It's dragged off, and the warm golden yellow of the blanket is tucked in around her legs, gently, by steady hands. "It still bothers you, huh?" The tone hasn't changed, even after months apart, but it's quieter now, softer somehow. Like she's really asking.

He concentrates on the movement of his hands as he works, eyes unseeing. He isn't actually sure how to respond this time. It _does _bother him, of course it does; how could it not? He's not her boyfriend anymore, he's not _allowed _to touch her and appreciate her and say things that sound like practised lines even though they're one hundred percent sincere. But he doesn't actually want her to get up and put her clothes back on. He doesn't want her to _change. _Maybe it's stupid and maybe it isn't, but he's always associate this part of her with her confidence, with her freedom, with her lack of inhibitions. The way she'd just bare herself to him – that was a part of her that he _loved._ Still loves in fact, and he takes this sort of behaviour as proof that it hasn't entirely disappeared.

His silence is incriminating, but he has no idea what it tells her. He can read it though, the realization and the resolution flashing briefly in her eyes, and his hands still, already having wrapped the fleece around her shoulders.

"_Wally_," she whispers, and the sound is so familiar and warm and beautiful against her lips. A hand reaches out, following the pattern of his freckles with a lightly calloused fingertip, and he isn't sure what to do anymore. So he leans in and she draws him back with her and soon the hot, fierce taste of her is fresh against his mouth. _He's _the one who's always been addicted.

Maybe they both are, a little bit.

Soon clothes are flying everywhere (_his _mostly), and mingling with the piles of dirty, sweaty, bloody fabric already strewn over the floor. Hands are clumsy and awkward and grasping, and they push and pull against each other, trying to force themselves closer. And he _knows _she's injured, and he _knows _he needs to be gentle, but it's hard to try when she's pressing along him and moving with such clear intent and _purpose_. And he's really, _really_, missed being with her.

"Relax," she breathes, smiling against his ear. "I'd never hurt you." And it's backwards and strange and so like her to say that she can feel his smile against her skin as he bends down to her again.

It's the second lie she's told him tonight.

He doesn't know how it elevates from that kiss to . . . to _this_; it's an explosion, a sudden, fiery relief. And the heat and the passion are elevated – made more reckless, more desperate – by the fact that they both know they shouldn't be doing this. She has no right to come here and do this with him, _to _him. And he shouldn't let her.

But they can't stop.

His hands are inept when they get to the clasp of her bra. He fumbles with it, twisting it in his fingers, and even in his hazy state he doesn't really think he should take this any farther than it's already gone. But he's straining painfully against his boxers and _God _he just wants her _so badly, _and she looks at him with softly smouldering silver eyes and holds herself so tightly against his heart that it doesn't take much to cross that boundary.

"_Only for you_."

He can still undo it with one hand.

* * *

"_Why does it bother you so much?"_

_His hands had stilled, nervous, and he'd had to actually stop and sit and think about it for a good couple of seconds (an hour, at least, in speedster time), and he'd said "I just . . . I think I'm the only person who should see you in them." And she'd stopped, her smile growing softer and less predatory (a cat-ate-the-canary grin), and she'd scoffed and kissed his still glowing cheek. _

"_Stupid. You _are _the only person who sees me in them."_

* * *

It's quiet, except for the steady beating of her heart against his chest, and the nearly nonexistent sounds still coming from the television. Clothes are strewn mainly on the floor, except for her bra, which landed with a soft clatter on the coffee table; to be picked up in the morning. His eyes are starting to feel drunk with the sight of her – heavy with her scent and her presence, and they're starting to close, when he hears it.

"_I love you_."

And he isn't sure if it came from the flickering screen and softly spitting speakers, or the sleeping form against him. But the pendant is on the table, spilling from the secret pocket in her bra, and he can see it winking in the blue light of the television.

It's really hard to sleep after that.

* * *

_The soft piano music was floating into the hallway from behind the blank, closed door. It echoed, bouncing around the tall ceilings and reaching his ears, bent over a plate of freshly baked cookies. He was naturally curious, since there wasn't a single piano anywhere in the base (not that he'd checked, because he couldn't play piano anyway, not at all, and he _certainly _wouldn't have used said fictional prowess in an attempt to woo the Martian girl), and he'd wandered in search of its source, a truckload of cookies wrapped in linen cradled in his arms. _

_It'd been coming from _her _door naturally, because that was the source of all highly suspect phenomenon. With the utmost in stealth and caution, he'd slid into the room, cookies held tight within his grasp. He was stunned into speechlessness. _

_She was standing there, spinning in the middle of the room to the song pouring from her radio. She saw him of course, mouth agog and dropping crumbling bits of baked cookie onto the floor, and she didn't stop and scowl at him, tell him to get out or even threaten him with bodily injury. In fact, she smiled, adding words to the musical track._

"_You know I'd walk a thousand miles  
If I could just see you  
Tonight"_

_And it'd snapped him out of his momentary confusion, and he'd grinned. "I could run you that thousand miles instead. It'd be way easier."And she had _laughed_. "Thanks Baywatch, but I think that kind of defeats the point. If you ran me a thousand miles, I'd _always _see you."_

"_Well, technically, you wouldn't – at full speed you can't really keep your eyes open. Hence the goggles." Her smile quirked upwards at the corner, her trademark smirk returning to its proper place. "So I wouldn't have to see you for the entire thousand miles?" A mocking, thoughtful look came over her. "I think I may have to take you up on that offer."_

"_Be careful what you wish for," he'd said solemnly. "I might just you leave you at the end of that trip." And she'd gasped, hand drawn to her heart in a comically insulted expression. "But who would you go to for scintillating company and deep conversation?"_

"_Well I have Wolf for that, obviously," he'd remarked with a wink, and then he'd run from the room, the mischievous glint in her eyes more telling than the leash she'd picked up from the desk beside her._

_Afterwards, the 'Thousand Mile Run' had become something of a running joke (pun intended) between them. _

_Until it wasn't a joke anymore._

_After the New Year 's Eve debacle, they returned to their regular banter; their fights, their competition. But they were softer – more friendly, kinder. (Of course, the random make-out sessions in the back of the fully equipped gym closet helped).And one day, in the later days of April, when the summer weather was beginning to make its first appearance, he'd picked her up on her way home from school and run her to a secluded beach on the opposite side of the country. It was still too cold for people to go swimming in the water, or to really enjoy the crisp feeling of the sand, so it was completely empty. Quiet and peaceful, with seagulls circling endlessly overhead, she'd stood, still and silent and watching in wonder. _

"_Thanks, Wally," she'd whispered, and even though she was still in her damn school uniform, she walked with him along the shoreline and ignored the sand getting into her school regulation shoes. Later, they'd sat on lounge chairs by the boardwalk and she kissed him in front of the sunset. _

_It was one of the most perfect moments of her life._

_And then the trips became something of a regular thing. They didn't always go to the beach – sometimes he'd run her to his favourite park, or a beautiful stargazing point, or even to this one diner that he claimed had the best pie he had _ever _tasted in his life (and he had probably tasted more than the diner even sold). On August 8__th__, in the middle of an impromptu trip to the county fair two states over, he'd suddenly stopped, his odometer finally clocked. _

_Artemis's hair had shone in the bright daylight, and she'd looked at him quizzically, with a touch of concern. "Are you tired? Need something to eat?" And her hand had gone to the pouch on her arm where she'd taken to stashing energy bars for her vacuum of a boyfriend. He smiled at her, his grin spreading, warmer than the sun. "Nope. I'm great actually!"_

"_Oh." She squinted, straining to read the rusted sign with the name of the interstate highway printed on it. Her hair trailed over her shoulder as she turned around, taking in the surroundings – a corn field behind her, a corral of horses on the other side, trees in the distance. "So . . . are we going horseback riding? Or . . . picking . . . corn? Or . . . something?"_

_He smiled wider at her quizzical expression, and placed his hands on her shoulders. "Just relax, and turn around." She hesitated, eyeing him through narrowed eyes, but turned swiftly on her heel. "Now close your eyes."_

_As soon as her lashes fluttered against her cheeks, she felt the cool kiss of metal against her skin. Her eyes shot open, and she picked up the pendant lying on her chest. "You asshole! I thought I lost this!" He laughed, kissing her on the cheek and just barely dodging the punch she aimed at his shoulder. _

"_You didn't say anything to me." Her face flushed, and she stared resolutely at the tall stalks of corn, attempting to transfer her feelings of annoyance to the vegetables. "I couldn't admit I had a keychain like this!" _

_He laughed. "What are you talking about? It just shows what good taste you have." _

_She landed the second punch. He would have objected if she didn't immediately grab him by the back of his head, leading him towards her for a kiss. The lightning pendant dangled between them, the shadow providing enough relief to read the engraving._

_1000 miles._

* * *

The smell of what can only be described as burning rubber greets her when her eyes finally open, completely cleared of sleep. She's tangled in the mess of blankets, her hair curling over the armrest of the couch, her clothes in a sad huddled pile on the side. She stretches, wincing when she bumps the bruised bone in her upper arm, and reaches over for the bra on the table. She pauses when she sees the flash of metal peeking out of it. Well, _shit_.

She grabs her clothes as quickly as she can, getting irritated when she accidently pushes limbs through rips and tears. She needs to be gone, yesterday. She glances over at the table, where the dagger and the headband are both resting. She typically doesn't involve herself in Wally's obsession with collecting souvenirs, but she sits for a second too long, just staring at the items and debating. She knows she really shouldn't – it's bad enough that he's caught her with the damn pendant – but she can't help herself.

Besides, he took her poster.

She steals up the steps on the pads of her feet, light as a cat. The hallways are dim, the only light shining in from the half-opened window at the end. A sudden _crash_ and she's pressed straight against the wall. "_Damn!" _ The hissing of oil as it slithers down the sink is the only sound for a moment, until she hears the sound of the tin trash can opening. She halts, hidden in shadow, and makes a clean sweep into the front of the house, standing quietly and waiting. Steps echo down the hall, and as the doorknob is grasped, she bolts out the front door.

The sun is too bright in the morning.

She dashes across the street, her footsteps loud in the empty neighbourhood, and into the urban fringes of the city. The nearest alley is only three streets away, and up two fire escapes, into the third window on the right, and through the ventilation ducts into the forgotten corners of the old apartment building, she can find exactly what she's looking for.

"Have you made your choice yet?"

Artemis stares hard into the dark, her eyes already adjusted. "I made it weeks ago." Her voice is strong and intrusive in the small space.

"Then I'll see you then. Good luck, little sister." A brief flash of light in the small space as the duct cover is removed, and the sharp curves of the Cheshire's smile are illuminated, the red bleeding into her vision. But the light and the company are both immediately removed, and she's alone in the small crawlspace once again.

* * *

He's not surprised. Not in the least. So he isn't sure why his insides are still burning, hot and bubbling and unsteady. The plate of toasted waffles is clattered on the floor, and his shirt is folded neatly on the coffee table, the sharp dagger resting against it, the metal in sharp contrast with the soft cotton.

He expected her to leave. He expected it. But he'd woken up with her pressed against his chest and he'd been stupidly, _stupidly _happy. So he'd thought maybe they could eat together before she left, and he'd gone up to the kitchen to attempt some pancakes and bacon. And when he'd burned it horribly and more or less destroyed his mother's favourite cast iron pan, he'd turned to the trusty family toaster, sitting patiently on the marble countertop, and popped in a couple of frozen waffles.

Of course the house is empty again. Of course it is. But he still throws on his suit haphazardly (he knows better, now, than to run around outside in civvies), and runs out the front door. (And promptly returns and cleans up all the fallen food, because the last thing his parents need right now, is the thought that he's been kidnapped. Again).

And he runs on the street, angry and desperate without any specific destination in mind. She's not doing this to him. Not again.

* * *

_The hobbling steps behind her could really only mean one thing. She turned, sharp, on her heels, and stared at him, grinning sheepishly up at her from beneath shaggy red bangs. She didn't smile. _

"_Looks like we're going to have to wait to hit the two thousand mile mark," he'd laughed weakly, and she'd felt her heart shatter, the shards embedding themselves deep in her skin. She looked just short of him, unsure she'd be able to keep her expression neutral. "It's okay, Wally," she'd started, and she was lucky her voice didn't break when his name slipped past her lips. "I don't think we're going to be able to break two thousand anyway."_

_He'd paused then, and he'd lifted the crutch, ready to take the five steps it would take to be next to her. She shook her head, staring resolutely, this time, into his eyes. "I don't think this is working out."_

_His face drew closed, shadows dropping over his eyes. "Why are you doing this?" _

_She stared him down, eyes burning. "I can't keep doing this! This!" She stabbed at his cast, at the haphazard writing it was decorated with, at the myriad of cuts and bruises freckled across his skin. "I can't keep worrying about you Wally! We're a _team. _We have a responsibility to each other, and I can't spend every waking minute trying to keep you safe!"_

"_Are you kidding me? I can take care of myself!" And her eyes had suddenly turned, for the briefest of moments, sad and suddenly _afraid, _and she threw a pointed glance at the crutch in his hand. She turned on her heel, and took long, determined strides towards the zeta tubes. "Goodbye Wally. I'm really sorry. About . . ." But the words were swallowed up by the flash of light._

_He gestured with the crutch, accidentally chipping the wall of the Cave in the process. "Look, this isn't your fault! None of this is your fault!" And he tried to figure out whether or not he believed it._


	7. Bad Decisions and Misunderstandings

_Author's Note: GAH I'M SO SORRY! I know I'm terrible at updating, I just have this stupid thing where I write out the story and then obsessively edit it and then rewrite the whole thing and then decide that I liked the first version better and then when I post it I decided I'm not quite satisfied with it, which is terrible, but you know. I don't think I've ever been 100% behind anything that I've posted. _

_Blargh._

_Thanks for putting up with me._

* * *

The car rattles and sparks against the rusted metal rails, the bolts banging precariously in the wheels. He's crushed against a writhing mass of people, and he feels obvious and uncomfortable, his hand holding tightly to his wallet. It's an old train on an even older line, and normally it's completely empty, but the county fair opens today on the outskirts of the town, and the only way to get there, really, is by getting on at a station that should have been shut down ten years ago after the new line was built (or earlier really, if you were concerned with all the obvious safety violations it boasted).

He knows he doesn't really need to be here. There are zeta tubes and – his favourite method of transportation – he could run the distance and arrive more comfortably and with a considerable time advantage than those of the other passengers in the car. But it's like dropping a pendant somewhere in a library and only realizing it's gone once you've left. You have to go inside and walk up and down all the isles and wait for the telltale flash of light that lets you know you've found it. Or keep walking and waiting with your head down, hoping that you don't have to give up, don't have to go to the front desk and ask the head librarian on the slim chance that someone else has found it, and the even slimmer chance that they've turned it in.

But he's combing all the streets, all the buildings, all the possible places he thinks she could be. He wonders, vaguely whether or not she'd even be here, in this crowded, festive air, possibly endangering this mass of innocent civilians. He curses, feeling stupid and frustrated and hoping he hasn't wasted too much time on this damned fool's errand when his breath catches in his throat and he nearly chokes on the taste of someone's overly-strong cologne. It's only a second – that brief glimpse of sunlight under the fluorescents – but he follows it with his gaze, pressed and immobile in the grimy car. He's standing nearly a dozen people behind her.

Wiggling uncomfortably between packed, layered bodies leaves him awkward and conspicuous, the hand holding his wallet losing it to the hard press of people. He turns, ready to grab it, when the doors open, and she chooses that moment to step decisively off the platform, the people making way as best they can and giving off a strange collective grumbling.

The platform is entirely empty – no one bothers attempting to get on the trains at this station, and it makes it both incredibly easy and terrifyingly difficult to follow her casual gait. Her heels are present – tall and sharp and silent as they saunter down the station's tiled floor. He's actually annoyed that she only got on the train to get off two stops later, until she disappears behind a pillar. A sharp burst of speed lets him slip behind her as she lands on cat's paws on the rails of the track, moving silently down the tunnel, apparently unaffected by the dim lighting and the grimy, mouldy stench; leading him into the dark. Sliding along to an alcove in the wall, he blinks and she disappears, leaving him stumbling alone on an outlying screw, nearly falling onto the electric rail. No, that's not right. She walks into one of the out-of-the-way electronic maintenance rooms along the length of the track.

He opens the door in a heartbeat – quickly enough to make most of the noise negligible – and slips inside. The bright, blinking lights and collection of twisting wires lined against the walls are the only visible things in the room. Squinting, he turns, trying to wait for his eyes to adjust to the dim glow.

The room is a box – smaller than the supply closet at the cave. And it's completely empty.

He actually runs the perimeter of the room four times, tripping and slipping and tangling himself in wires and hanging cords, before he finds the outdoor access hatch. He pauses, breaths low, and knows that there's no possible way he fooled her. No possible way she hadn't noticed him. No possible way she hadn't been leading him forwards. So he isn't sure what he expects when he steps outside; when he can see her facing him, tall and cold as a statue, he approaches warily.

"Sorry," she starts, her voice too loud and too intrusive even though she whispers. "I meant to say thanks, but I was sort of in a hurry." Her tone is light and icy, burning in his ears. She's threading words into a casual string – finishing a conversation they haven't yet started.

"That's too bad. I made waffles and everything." His shrug betrays his annoyance, his shoulders humming minutely, further wrinkling his shirt. He's been looking for her, nonstop, for three days, and his clothes are dirty and worn. She doesn't mention the fact that he hasn't changed since she'd been to his house, although since his clothes were on the floor for the duration of the night, he isn't sure whether or not she genuinely hasn't noticed.

"Mmm. I bet they were divine." He can't tell if she's being sarcastic, but his tone remains flat. "I wouldn't know – I didn't actually get the chance to eat them."

"Wow, you passed up food? Must have been _some _emergency." He can hear the smile in her voice, even if he can't see it on her face, and that, more than anything, annoys him. She really is just like a statue – beautiful, flawless, and hard as stone. "You're hard to keep track of, and there were a few things I needed to air before you . . . _abandon _me again."

"_Abandon _you?" She shuts her eyes, and when she opens them again they sit, heavy and lidded and slightly pitying, on her face. "I guess that's the real problem with always moving so fast. You're always rushing to one conclusion or another. I haven't _ever, _in the _entire time I have been running, _ABANDONED you."

He laughs, cynical and bitter and jarring, and it echoes over the empty lot, between the unused subway cars and the spokes in their wheels. She knows better than to wince at the sound – to give him any leverage in his emotional blackmailing campaign. She stares just past him instead; looking at the stranger she's become in the reflection of the train's tinted windows. "How _dare_ you." He shakes his head, looking suddenly far, far too old for his age, and his eyes drop with a sudden piercing sadness, an understanding. "What do you call what you've been doing? You can't just walk back into my life and walk back out whenever you _Goddamn please!_ I can't _handle _it!" He takes a deep breath and stops, eyes focused on something closer and more real than whatever it is that's happening between them right now. "I want you back as much as you want to be back, and you need to stop freaking running away!"

Her eyes flash. "Running away from you is the only thing that's going to keep you from getting killed. Whether or not it's by your choice."

He bristles at the condescension. "I would stay alive forever if it meant we could be together! I would make it work! I would DO IT!"

She almost laughs, but her mask is still; perfect. "Is that what this is about? You want to try and make this _work?_ What? Get me back on the team even though every time I go out I'm being followed by the Shadows, I'm being targeted, I'm being _attacked?_ Grow UP, Wally! I'd slow you down in all the worst ways!"

"That's not what I'm talking about, and don't pretend for a second it is!" He nearly spits on the ground. "I mean _US._"

"Oh, so I pay you a little visit, and suddenly the door's open on _US?" _Her voice is soft and smooth as boiling oil, and he nearly considers a pre-emptive retreat. "Suddenly that whole scene where we _Broke Up_ is totally irrelevant?"

"You broke up with me."

Her words crawl up his skin like barbed needles. "Then why in the hell would that mean _Us _is even an option?"

"Because I _know _you still love me." The words are a double-edged challenge, thrown out into open air in desperation.

"Except I don't."

"Please. Vanessa Carlton's Thousand Miles."

"I don't know what the hell that has to do with anything."

His eyes light up. "So I guess it won't matter to you if I keep this then?" The pendant dangles from between his fingers, catching the molten light of the sun as it glares down on them. _1000 miles_. She can't look directly at it – almost as if it's become the sun itself. "That cheap little trinket? Not at all." But she can tell she's losing ground. Her arm presses against her chest and the pocket in her bra is flat. When the hell did he take the damned thing anyway?

"I know, Artemis." The words are lyrical; mellow and seductive. "We can still do this."

"No, we can't."

She's so decisive, so sure, that he can't help the way his blood boils at her stupid obstinacy. "Well why the hell can't _I _have a say in this? Why don't I get to decide?"

"It doesn't work that way. Both parties kind of have to have an agreement."

"BUT I KNOW YOU WANT IT TOO!"

He's startled by the slap. It echoes too, more final and perverted and terrible than his laughter had been. It's the door closing, fast, on this short window. "It. Doesn't. Work. That. Way."

"So I don't even get to say my piece?"

She glowers dangerously, eyes piercing straight through his skull, and spits the words like they taste vile in her mouth. "No. Your choice gets no weight, because you would choose the stupid, romantic, _wrong _one." She turns to leave, her gaze reflecting the deserted lot.

"Stop running away!" His words hang, empty, in the air. "We can help you! We can fix this!"

She barely turns. "I killed a man." Her breath wafts around them, almost tangible, disturbing the dust and the dirt. "And they'll keep hunting me until I'm dead, too."

He doesn't hear her footsteps after she's rounded the nearest train.

"Don't count anymore, okay Wally?"

* * *

He doesn't think anyone's in there until the bright light illuminates a hunched, red-headed form – a brief triangle of luminance in the darkness that's gone as quickly as it appears. His steps on the tiled floor disguise the soft _Click! _of the fridge as it closes.

"Eating in the dark?" His tone is only half-teasing though, as he regards what little he can make of his friend, huddled against the counter with a vertical three foot sandwich cradled within his embrace, and a tattered notebook beneath his arm.

"Makes it an adventure," comes the mumbled reply. A finger rests on the roof of the meal, tilting it haphazardly from one direction to the other. He makes no move to actually consume any of it, and more disturbing yet, doesn't bat an eyelash as the contents spill across the granite.

"You found her." It isn't a question. White-blue eyes dart carefully over the dog-eared pages, filled with dates and places and distances. All the blank spaces have been violently crossed out with a thick, black marker.

"I hate her." The words are strangled in a layer of fleece. A dark, webbed hand rests on top of it, light and gentle. "Do you?"

"Yes! God! I hate her so much!" His arms fly overhead. "She thinks she can just walk back in any time she wants even though she always, _always _just walks back out! She doesn't care that I can't stand this uncertainty! I don't know when she's coming back, I don't know how she's doing, and I don't even know if she's really still _alive _anymore!" He turns, his eyes oddly radiant in the dark. "They're going to _kill _her!"

"They are going to try." The warmth of his hand has moved to his shoulder now, still, reassuring. "But she is a remarkable young woman, and I do not know if you are giving her the credit she is due."

"They have _numbers _and _time_. They can overwhelm her, if nothing else." He drops his head on the table, not bothering with cushioning the blow. The bang is loud in the small space, and his sandwich tower topples. He picks at a piece of bread fitfully.

"We will protect her."

He laughs, small and dead. "Will we? You guys are all so busy nowadays and I've barely got a clue where I can find her. We're sunk."

The pressure on his shoulder is harder now, more firm – even a little bit painful. "If you go into a mission believing it will fail, then it will never be a success, no matter the outcome."

Then, suddenly, he's standing by the door, the tattoos on his arms glowing less intensely when framed by the light of the hallway. "What should I do?" His friend faces him, indulgent, and waits for him to clarify. "She didn't even want to hear it. I would have done anything – _risked anything _– for her." He takes a soft breath. "To be with her again."

"Even her life?"

Then he's alone in the kitchen, with his piles of disassembled sandwich scattered around the throbbing pain in his forehead. His head hasn't lifted once from the countertop.

* * *

This is a stupid idea. He knows this is a stupidstupid_stupid _idea, and if his teammates hadn't managed to drill it into his head as he'd taken off on his motorbike, then these people were beating it into him brutally, sealing the lesson into the cracks in his bones. He sits up, barely, and spits into the mask of his nearest assailant, his lip splitting as he smiles and staining his teeth red. "I love a good cardio workout," he manages, and then a low blow is dealt directly beneath his ribs.

He nearly throws up in their faces (and through the pain the thought itself makes him laugh). They don't stop with their barrage of attacks, despite the fact that he thinks he might be doing a pretty good imitation of the Joker at this point. At the back of his mind, through the hazy fog of pain and dizziness and intense blood loss, he wonders if this will even work. If she's near here at all. If she'll know what he's done.

Apparently she was wrong. He can get himself killed just fine, regardless of whether or not she runs away.

He's lying on the ground, his bones broken and unable to heal nearly as fast enough as he needs. His back arches painfully as he's kicked in the ribs, and he can't make himself stop laughing. It's a little bit sick that he thinks for a moment that if he dies tonight, then he'll have something to rub in her face, but the thought is washed away in seconds. He won't die tonight. He'll regroup, get over this, help her. He's gotten the stupid out of his system and now he's ready to focus.

The pain is finally catching up to him now, and he doubles over, the breath already gone from his sporadic laughing fits. There's too much blood on the ground, and for a moment he sees concrete floors and concrete walls and a small wooden door, and hears a sharp, panicked intake of breath. But that's his (of course it is), and his vision clears almost immediately.

This would be a really, really crappy place to die. He can see a fragment of shining white from the corner of his eye, wiped off during the fight in that gallon or so of blood on the ground. He needs to stop getting caught in alleyways.

He can't breathe anymore. The laughter was the most unproductive thing he could have done, and now he can almost see the blood leaching colour from his skin. He shakes, and feels sicksicksicksick_sick_, and the freckles on his skin look like liver spots, standing out so obviously that he really starts to wish he was back in the Cave's ICU right now. His eyes are half-closed and filmy, and he feels _wrong._ But if he closes his eyes and falls asleep, it's more or less lights out permanently.

The thuds and assorted grunts of pain make his eyes shoot open, and he bolts into a crouching position, his cuts shallow (for the most part), and pieces of his humerus scattered on the ground behind him. The black smudge moving swiftly through his attackers takes out more than half, and suddenly it's condensed into a form right in front of him. "You _f***ing _idiot!" she hisses, and he almost smiles, it's so familiar. "What the _hell _do you think you're doing? This is exactly _why _I did _not _want to hang out with you anymore!" She strips off the long sleeved sweater she's wearing, and ties it into a sort of splint around his upper arm.

She looks positively _murderous, _and most of that ill will is directed in his direction. He's never seen her look like she's wanted to punch him so much in all the time that he's known her. It's kind of beautiful.

She secures the knot just as she's yanked by her ponytail, her face contorting into one of pure, unadulterated annoyance. "I do NOT have time for this shit right now!" She grabs the shaft of a short arrow from a pocket on her leg and slices it through the golden strands. It looks almost like sunlight, he thinks, as it floats delicately to the ground and soaks in his blood. Sunlight turning to scarlet sunset. The sudden freedom, the lack of weight, unbalances her just a little, and she snaps his neck as she goes to kick out his ribs. The sickening _Crack!_ echoes in the alleyway, and she turns and grabs under his good arm, shepherding him to the nearest Zeta and ignoring the body as it falls; a twisted puppet behind her.

They're coming, of course they're coming, and he can hear the dull, slow thuds of their steps as they run forwards, but the flash of light has already engulfed them and destroyed all the darkness. His senses are floating after that – it isn't quite on par with the other three torture sessions that he's had before, but it's bad. Very bad. He might as well be floating in some sort of sensory deprivation tank, for all his awareness of the outside world.

When the light clears from his eyes and the shadows return, throwing pictures into relief and adding colour and life, the first thing he can see is her furious, _livid, _expression. "Hey gorgeous," he sighs, forgetting in his highly medicated state that he's furious right back at her. He can see the muscles in her neck straining with the effort of not slapping him, and he feels a sense of victory that he doesn't fully understand at the moment.

She ducks her head, attending to the I.V. drip on his left side. "I hate you." The words are clear and purposeful and strong, and he might have genuinely believed it if the arm that she was leaning over wasn't being rained on. He smiles, weak. "Love you too."

She taps him lightly on the shoulder. "Until I can punch you again," she clarifies, growling at the end of it. Her grip on the metal rails of the hospital bed is deathly tight. "You're just lucky that I managed to snag an override pass for the Zeta, otherwise you'd have bled to death on the street."

He nods sleepily. "Mmhmm, s'all good."

She sits, gripping the metal so tightly she can feel blisters forming. A soft knock on the door forces her attention, the damn invalid already having drifted off into the blissful state of morphine-induced dreams. "We tried to stop him."

She frowns, her canines poking, feral, over her lip. "You obviously didn't do a very good job."

The absence of footsteps to accompany the sudden presence kicks her instincts into high gear, and she very nearly throws him off balance with an unexpected wide sweep kick. She curses, drawn out and tired. "Damn it. Sorry, Robin. I'm just – " He nods sympathetically. "Wired, I get it."

He spares the patient a brief glance, turning almost immediately back to the blonde with the suddenly shorter, wiry hair. "Been a while since I've seen you in here," he notes. He fingers the rough ends of her do. "This is new though. I kind of like it."

"You're an ass." Her hand hasn't removed itself from the rail. "And I hate you too."

He softens. "Sorry." A pause; quiet. "We really did try. But Speedsters are kind of tricky like that. Slippery when you want to get your hands on them . . ."

"Stuck like glue when you need to get rid of them." Her voice is strained now, defeated, and she gently pries her fingers from their stiff position. She lowers her head, the back of a hand pressed against her eyes. "Four times I've been in here for something like this, and the last one, he does to _himself_?" She wants to laugh, but it chokes itself out in a distorted, asphyxiated cry.

He rubs small circles on her shoulder, not entirely sure if that's the protocol for an emotionally exhausted archer. "Thank you."

She snorts. "Right." Her breaths even out, slow, soft. "Thank _you_."

He nods, immediately jumping back. "I've always got your back."

They stand there for a moment, joined by more than just the stupid redhead settled on the bed. He turns discretely, wishing, not for the first time, that they could siphon in some natural light. The yellow light of the bay makes the redhead look gaunt and sickly and _terrible_. He wonders, vaguely, if this was how the pair of them appeared to the others, when they'd been lying in those beds some months before.

She reaches over to him, and pulls a slip of paper from the waistband of her jeans. He grabs the edges delicately, arching a curious eyebrow in her direction, but she isn't looking at him. "Don't let him do this anymore."

"With any luck they beat the stupid right out of him," he ripostes, and he knows it really isn't the time for jokes, and it's probably in bad taste, but she cracks a smile anyway and says, "God, I hope so."

He opens a page on his wrist computer, updating the vitals. "Good news is that he'll only need to be in intensive for like, another day or so. It's really not that bad." Not that bad. Not _as _bad. She flinches even though he doesn't say it, and stares resolutely at the ground. He unfolds the slip of paper between two fingers.

And stops.

"Are you serious?"

"Dead."

He pauses, unsure of exactly what to say. They'll track her in next to no time at all, and _Wally. _God, he's just going to run over there and stake the place out and make a general nuisance of himself. But this is Artemis he's talking to. She's already thought everything through. Her resolve is unbreakable. That's her plan then. Oh holy mother of _Batman, _**that's** her plan! He whips towards her, his cape catching her on the neck, flecks of dried blood peeling off with the motion.

"You can't do this."

Her lips lift in a small smirk. "I think we're past the point where you can tell me what to do anymore, boy wonder."

He grips her forearm,** hard**. "I'm serious. This is _way _out of bounds – _especially _for you. You _turned _on them. This could end very, _very_, badly for you. You're not doing this."

"I've already made up my mind." A finger flicks a lock of bright red hair from a fevered forehead.

"And he can't get messed up chasing after you." The whispered realization is heavy with truth and dread, and tucks itself around his sleeping friend like a shroud. "Are you _serious? _Is that why you're doing this?"

"Don't let him do this anymore." She stands, limbs heavy, and stretches. "I have to be gone, now."

"You're not going anywhere! Just stay right here, I'm going to get Batman and we are finally going to freaking _talk _about all of this, instead of hiding behind random moral fodder shit and pretending that you're not facing a _death sentence_." The black fingers of his glove hover, menacingly, in her direction, and she doesn't so much as bat an eye.

"Master of inspirational speeches, as always, fearless leader." She steps, light and soft, over the threshold. His arm shoots out, pure instinct and desperation, attempting to pin her behind him to the wall or the floor or just _anywhere _to keep her from leaving. She shoots over his shoulder, spinning his hand behind him and bending him over the end of an unoccupied gurney. "Nice try. But, I've had to pick up a few extra lessons the last couple months – don't think I've been letting myself grow idle."

She vaults over him, her fingers fluttering in a strange, feminine wave. "Nice to see you again." Her expression is soft as she turns, betraying what otherwise would have been an afterthought; a throw-away comment. "Make Batman proud." He feels the words pierce his chest, echoing in a quickly hollowing heart. He starts to move, but the beeping of the heart rate monitor suddenly picks up, and he curses and turns around.

Unfortunately, the idiot with the I.V. drip currently takes priority.

* * *

"Hey, Champ." The voice filters through a thick haze of medicated fog, and he struggles to open his eyes to meet their source. As the world swims around him and he begins recalling his senses, he feels a slight pressure on the back of one hand, warm, solid, comforting. Like lying in the sun.

Eyelashes brush across the sunken skin above his cheeks, his freckles swallowed in the deep valleys and grooves of illness and fitful sleep. "I'm sorry." The words are harsh in a dusty throat, desperate to be heard and filled with a small amount of fear.

His uncle's eyes are kind, though, and clear and sad when they look down at him. "I think you've had a bit too much freedom."

The relief and confusion shows on his face. "I kind of thought you were going to yell and freak out and stuff."

"I already did," he admits, voice slightly rueful. "I was loud enough to wake up the entire city – everyone but you." His eyes follow the line of his hair, free and unobstructed by white bandages. It's different from the last time he's sat in this wing, tired and worried and frantic, his phone lighting up and vibrating against his leg with anxious calls from family. It had been worse, before, because it had been so violent and sudden and _personal_. It's still personal – but this is a choice.

"What were you thinking when you left?" The voice is soft and low and just slightly inquisitive. "Were you, even?"

He laughs a little bit, natural and quiet. "Yeah, actually – it made perfect sense to me. Although I can't explain why." The heart monitor beeps softly in the background, marking his pause. "I just thought that I'd – I don't know." His shoulders lift in the slightest shrug, the look on his face almost apologetic. "I thought maybe if I could hold my own against them, she'd stop running." He turns, eyes averted. "That she'd realize it's okay to come back."

The pressure on his hand increases, and it takes him a moment to realize that his uncle's hand is squeezing his own. "I think you should stop."

Strands of red hair rub frantically across the pillowcase. "I can't."

The blond sighs, and rubs a hand through his short hair. "You have to. This isn't just about her – it's not even just about you." He grips him firmly, tightly; sure. "You have family that are worried about you. Friends. How do you think the Team felt when you ran off to pick a fight with some of the world's most dangerous assassins? How do you think _she _felt?" He shakes his head, shoulders dropping.

"Look, I get it." He almost laughs. "I know what this feels like. Not exactly, not totally, but I understand enough of what you're going through to know what you're going to do next. And you can't do it." He stares at the monitor beside his nephew's head, and watches the steady beats that mark out the pattern of his life. "You need to be safe. You need to move on and take your life back."

"I can't just –" He stops, his words unsure; plans and ideas and convictions lost in his own head. He closes his eyes, a thousand schematics and schemes drawn in vivid detail on the inside of his eyelids. The beeping in the room slows.

When they finally lock eyes again, a glimmer of compassion sparks in the depths of blue eyes, igniting hope like a flame in emerald green. "I don't expect you to do it right away. But come September, I'll be expecting you to start living again. You have to promise me at least that."

He doesn't hesitate. "I promise."

"And you can't go around trying to get yourself killed, either." The words are heavy with urgency and importance. The redhead nods, slow and stiff and looking appropriately abashed.

The man in the bright red suit seems mollified, a kind smile gracing his face, and a loose, casual air seeping slowly into the room. But the smile that's returned is only lukewarm. By September, he'll either have saved her, or she'll have already disappeared.

Forever.

* * *

It's a quiet suburban neighbourhood – sweet and gentle in the soft light of evening, the mellow glow from the windows lighting up the faces of the houses on the street. He ignores them all though, in favor of the one on the corner lot, dark and empty and cold. The curtains are drawn on all the windows. And he can tell from his position across the street that there's a thick layer of dust and grime streaking the glass.

He sighs, and rubs a hand over his eyes, feeling cramped and restless on his position on the park bench. The breeze is picking up, and it smells like barbeque and it makes his stomach react painfully, aching in the hollow of his body. He's starving.

He knows really it's his fault, to a point, but he can be just as damned stubborn as she can, and he sits resolutely, gaze trained forwards and unmoving. There's never any sign of life from within the abandoned house.

He cracks his neck and waits for . . . Raquel, he thinks, to bring him some food and offer another futile chance for him to be relieved from duty. He never takes it, not really, because he can burn through sleep with all this food until he crashes, hard, and even then only when Robin's decided to take things over. His young friend had been very insistent that he didn't attempt to directly involve himself in her affairs anymore, unless it was absolutely necessary, and he'd ignored the advice, as per usual, until the letters he'd slipped under the door and through the cracks in the window and dropped down the chimney tied to stones had fed a lengthy blaze one night, the smoke billowing from the chimney top and raining charred, penned words on his head, dying his hair black.

He'd stooped to pick up a fragment, later, when the smoke had died out and the house had returned to its regular inactivity, and found her name written on it in his loopy, reverent script. He didn't leave any more letters after that, didn't try to contact her at all, in fact, and his half-formed plans to break into the house on his own had died, incomplete. Now he sits, stoic and still, on the park bench, waiting and breathing and hoping, unrealized feelings of being creepy and a stalker dying slowly with his focus.

"Hey." The voice was deeper than he'd been expecting and he turns, confused and wondering whether or not he'd actually messed up the schedule in his head. The arm extending the bag of deep-fried fast food belongs to a muscular young man, light-skinned and uncovered. He quirks an eyebrow at his other red-headed friend. He's never been part of the watch, although whether or not it was for Artemis or for himself, he can't quite say.

"Hey," he offers, and the words hang, light and just slightly confused, in the air. A groan from the park bench as it dips lets him know that Roy's settling himself down, comfortably, even if he doesn't lift his face from the food on his lap. "What are you doing here?"

He shrugs, a bit aimlessly, and turns to look at him. "I came to check things out."

"I'm not crazy or anything," he supplies, and his friend nods his head, lips lifted in a slightly condescending smile. "The crazy never think they are."

The air is filled with the crinkling of wrappers, and the crinkling of basketball shorts. It's already gotten so warm, and the summer's barely started.

"What do you expect to happen?" He asks, and Wally chews thoughtfully, unsurprised by the abruptness of the question. His shoulders lift uselessly though, and he ekes out a response through a mouthful of chewed beef. "I don't know. Maybe for her to come out of the damned house and apologize and say that she's coming home."

The laugh is brief, choked out hastily with a cough and a sigh. "Sorry. But seriously Wally, what are you going to _do_? Nothing's going to stop them from taking her, not really." His eyes grow dark and serious. "They always get that far at least."

He doesn't fidget, doesn't throw his hands in the air or screw up his expression in frustration and despair. He's calm, collected. Focused. "I don't know." The first two wrappers are already crumpled in his lap. "I'm going to try."

"And if you grab her? If you manage to 'save' her? What are you going to do then?"

"Take her home, I guess."

"What home?" He shakes his head. "She's moved out ages ago, I'm sure you've noticed. Don't think we haven't been watching your little cross-country 'excursions'. And there's nowhere for her to go where she won't be hunted. Her family's _gone._"

"We're her family too."

He looks over, surprised and a little bit confused. He doesn't say a word though, just shakes his head again and lets his shoulders roll with silent laughter until he's calm enough to speak. "Yeah. We're all one big happy family."

Wally shrugs. "Hey, families are entitled to have problems. And even if you _are_ a total ass, we're still brothers." He punches him, hard, in the shoulder. "Don't forget it."

_Always looking out for him, after all. _He snorts, but his eyes are softer now, and he waits as the sun goes down and the stars start sparkling in the sky, enjoying the Speedster's company, until he pushes him lightly in the shoulder, forcing him on his side. "Shove over."

"What?"

"Shut up and just shove over. Take a load off; go to sleep. I'll take this watch."

"Don't you have League duty or something?"

"Not tonight," he lies, throwing his arms over the wooden back of the seat. His neck rolls as he settles himself down, to wait. And Wally actually rolls over, head lolling on his arm. "I'm trusting you dude."

He laughs. "Only because you know I do it better."

"Stalking chicks?"

He's rewarded by a kick to the shin. "I thought I told you to shut up."

* * *

The street is dark when he rolls up beside him, the motor unusually soft on such a large machine. Wally reaches up with a gloved hand to rap on the side of the van, and the doors slide open, the smell of roasted potatoes and some of Alfred's most famous pot roast floating out on thick clouds.

"Table's up in the back," a muffled voice starts from the front. He clambers into the metal chamber, and tears off the covers, letting the wafting steam hit him full in the face. He's starving.

"Dude, slow down, you're going to choke to death," a teasing voice, floating by his ear.

He nearly breathes in the potatoes. "Dude, the only thing that's going to kill me is having you sneak up on me." He takes a long swig of water. "Alfred's outdone himself – tell him I said thanks."

His friend shrugs, still half shrouded by the darkness. "You know he loves to cook for you. Apparently nobody quite appreciates his 'fine cuisine' like you do."

He raps on the metal wall behind him and gestures to the front. "Where'd you get a _van_?" He casts a sly look at his friend. "Do you even have a _license_?"

"Of course." He pauses, and he can almost see the cackle dangling tangibly in the silence between them. "In Russia."

"So what're you going to do if a cop pulls you over?"

"Are you kidding me?" The blinding smile appears right across the table from him, and he hurls a potato and retracts it in the same breath. "Dude. Dangerous."

His cackle surfaces now, echoing in the empty space of the vehicle. "Sorry. Be honest though – cops don't pull over law-abiding citizens."

"I don't know if you noticed, but you don't exactly look the driving age."

A shrug. "You know what they say – the lens ages you."

He laughs appreciatively, and crawls over to the front of the van, peering into the corner of the cab. "Projection screens. Nice." His fingers are moving before the sentence has finished, and the roving data readouts are blinking on the dashboard, the heat sensor monitors following the only moving patterns in the neighbourhood.

"Seriously man, boundaries." The hand that claps him on the shoulder is firm, but he doesn't flinch. "You are starting to cross into creepy territory."

"Then you should at least share." He swivels in the seat, twisting around to stare his friend in his bright blue eyes. "Where is she?"

His shoulders stiffen, and he glances through the windshield. The street is quiet and empty and peaceful – no sign of what's transpiring here visible on the surface. He isn't surprised – it's not like he thought Wally hadn't been filling his hours with something other than staking her out (especially after the fireplace incident). "She's here."

He'd known of course. You didn't get to be the protégé of the world's greatest detective without picking up at least a handful of useful sleuthing skills, and he'd applied all of them to this . . . situation. He hadn't thought for a minute, when she'd handed him that scrap of white paper that she'd really give him the address that she'd be staying at. The only reason it would have been even _remotely _close to where she was would have been because the real purpose of telling them that – telling them _anything _really – was to keep an eye on them. On Wally.

So the first night he'd arrived to relieve his friend from duty and to prevent him from inadvertently killing himself, he'd stalked through the whole neighbourhood dressed down in civvies and trying not to appear too much like he was looking for anything. (Not that he really thought he'd be fooling _her_). It'd taken him two trips, really, just to narrow it down between the six houses along that one, endless street, and three hours double-checking on his background databases. And the next time he arrived, he'd realized his data was already out of date.

The redhead snorts and shakes his head. "No kidding, genius." Then, softer: "You know which house, don't you?"

He shakes his head, and Wally's eyebrows lift in incredulity. "Are you serious?"

He sighs, long and drawn-out, and massages a hand through his messy raven hair. "She's just – she keeps moving. It's never in one house for more than, what? – two or three days. I don't know which one it is today, yet. Just, give me a chance to scout some things out first, okay? Lie down, take a nap, whatever. I'll be back soon."

"Like you get to ditch me," his friend snorts, and he's discouraged to hear the familiar stubbornness resurfacing in his tone.

"Look, do you not trust me or something? I'm not going to leave you in a sketchy van at the side of the road, okay? Besides, when's the last time you actually slept?"

"Like, two watches ago." That surprises him more than it should.

"I'm sorry, man," he shakes his head again, slow and genuinely apologetic. "But there is no **way** you can move." He plods on, heedless of the hard look in his green eyes. "She's set things up like this for a reason – pretty much the only thing that's guaranteed is that if you start seeking her out, she's going to up and move next second. She's not going to sit around and wait for you to come rescue her – she's doing whatever she can to _keep _you from it. Besides, as long as _you're _here, she's going to be set up in a vantage point where she can keep an eye on you. Just –"

"You'll tell me, right? As _soon _as you find out?" His voice is calm when it cuts in, and the acrobat relaxes at the acceptance in his voice.

"Of course."

Sneakers are thrown up on the dashboard, marking the leather with dust and scuffing it along the edges, and his arms pillow his head as he leans back, casual. "Then if you don't mind, I think I'll take you up on that offer to catch some Zs." He winks, back stretched comfortably against the seat. The van is already empty.

"Don't get the van too dirty, or Alfred's going to _kill _you." The voice pops up just outside the window, but he's already so relaxed he doesn't even flinch. He turns over without responding, knowing that his friend has already disappeared.

* * *

It's the first walk up the street he's made, this time, so he's a little bit off his game, even if he isn't surprised. The house was shining brightly, lit from within, just seconds ago, when suddenly it'd become nothing more than a splotch of darkness in the middle of the street – a dark, gaping alley , wide and sinister, between the adjacent homes. He curses and runs, hard and fast, into the driveway, calling up the link on his com and trying desperately to wake the Speedster sleeping in the van he'd parked at the side of the road. No response.

He really didn't want to have to do this, since it's actually _really _early in the morning (like two or three o'clock early), but he hits a button on his wrist computer and the car alarm goes off, blaring and intrusive in the peaceful silence. The fumbled thumps he can hear as the alarm is shut off, is replaced by frantic static and incoherent words blurted through the link. "Get your ass over here. Something's happened." He doesn't have to clarify what _something _means.

By the time the quivering orange blur alights beside him, the entire street is dark, and quiet as a tomb. It's a correlation he doesn't want to see, and he wipes all expression from his face to keep his friend from seeing it.

"Which one?" The words pierce through the calculations whirling in his mind, and his head whips from one end of the street to the other. He doesn't answer, but moves swiftly to the house to the left of the nearest darkened streetlamp. The redhead follows without commentary or hesitation. "Is this the one?"

The acrobat hasn't had a chance, yet, to search the houses along the street, to determine all over again which house she's taken residence in. But – "Yes. This is it."

The door isn't even locked when they step inside – like they've been invited, like they're _expected_. The hallway is dark and eerie though, and it may be the effect of imagining all the horrors, all the terrible, terrible threats that she never heard made real, but they both see violent, grotesque shapes in the dark, leering at them from the blackness. They move forward quietly, their footsteps raising sharp clouds of dust. The house has been empty for days.

His mind whirls as he takes in the state of the house, the air heavy and musty with disuse. Gone for _days_; he hadn't even noticed.

The domino mask tightens as he closes his eyes, thinking and wondering and then glancing severely around. He knows she set it up. She's waited, left the grid timed to collapse, and had disappeared, hoping that once they'd realized what had happened, that they'd follow her example. It was typical of her – expecting them to resign themselves to her fate and move on. His expression is still dark when it's lit in negative by the screens of his flowing wrist computer, his hand tapping on his ear com. to establish a link and clear the static.

"Anyone at the Cave? Yeah, yeah, the both of you. If you could spare him too then – how many of you – perfect. That's fine. Now. It has to be now. We need to be gone before the sun rises."

He can feel the thrumming, buzzing heat of his friend behind him, restless and impatient. He wants to do something, search for clues, chase her down, move – run. But he stands, and waits for some indication – some sign – of what they need to be doing here. He's not stupid – especially not where she's concerned – and he knows what this is. What this means.

She'd always planned to go with them.

"What are we waiting for?" he asks, once he's sure he's not interrupting, trying desperately to keep the frustration and despair from breaking into the air with his words.

"Miss M and Zee are coming with Wolf. They'll be here in twenty minutes, tops."

He shuffles on the carpet. "So what do we do until then?"

His friend shrugs, his movements light and restrained. "Sweep the house, see if she's left us anything. It won't take long. After that –" the pause is as thick as the dust in the air. " – there isn't really anything we _can _do."

The redhead's already zipping out of the hallway, constricting and dark, and into a living room that doesn't look as though it's ever been used. He appreciates it, on some level, that his friend refuses to lie to him anymore to bolster his hope and his focus. But on a plane that's closer to the surface, bubbling just at the foreground of his mind, is the resentment and anger and fear. The detective's young charge is much too much like his guardian – he can analyze a situation in seconds, can sift through plans and back-ups and contingencies, can determine the next phase of action within less than a minute. If there's nothing really for them to do, then the situation has already reached critical levels of hopelessness. The thought starts his heart shrivelling inside his chest, bouncing in the cavernous space it once used to occupy.

He doesn't see anything for the next twenty minutes, the house heavy with silence. It may not have looked it when they first entered, but the house is completely clean. There's no trace that anyone has been in here at all.

He curses when a dark shape coalesces beside him, nearly jumping out of his suit. "They're just outside." A bright light floods in through the windows, turning off immediately once they hit the glare.

_Sorry! _The thought intrudes, soft, the early peals of determination tingeing with sadness. _I forgot about the lights. _

_Hey M'gann! Bring them with you?_

_Present and accounted for! _The new voice breaks into the fray, falsely cheerful. The soft _Click! _of the door as it's pushed open is the only sound audible in the room – even now that they're standing close enough to touch, the burden of communication is placed on the psychic link. A soft, white mass blurs into the hallway, shining in the gloom. _Aren't we, Wolf?_ He remains silent, but she rewards him with a scratch behind the ears anyway. _Where do you want us to start?_

_Anywhere_. He makes a wide, sweeping motion with his hands, and the pretty brunette arches an eyebrow. _Could you be a _little _bit more specific? Like, are there any clues you want us to find – something to help us rescue her?_

The look on his face is dark and desperate. He doesn't want to voice these thoughts, not here, not in front of _him_. But it's a truth that won't stay hidden for very long, and he isn't doing anyone any favours by pretending otherwise. _There's no rescue. _

Those words open the pretty blue eyes to wells of despair, and the Martian ducks her head behind her. Neither voices a single thought, their emotions rolling, softly growing in strength. _Normally, rescue from the Shadows is almost impossible. But she's . . . _It's the first time, with his large vocabulary, with the lexicon of words available at his fingertips, that's he's ever really been at a loss for what to say.

_There's no way we can rescue her_. The voice cuts in, grim and unflinching. _She doesn't want us to. She's probably taken precautionary measures _against _it, in fact. It's done. _They turn to the source of the twisted, almost nihilistic statement, but the redhead's back is turned, and he's walking a funeral march to the backdoor. _I'll be outside when you're done. _

He doesn't turn back around.

The girls look at his retreating form, and the large animal at their feet lifts his nose in the air, as if attempting to determine the reason for the sudden retreat. They all cast identical, worried looks at the acrobat. _Miss M, can you read auras or energies or something?_ She nods, a half smile lifting on her face. _Or something._

_Great. Look, just see if she left us any, like clues, or messages, or . . . _But the thought remains unfinished and they know what he means. See if she made any _good-byes_. They nod, and he's disappeared, no doubt running out to hunt the redhead down.

He doesn't elaborate on his friend's behaviour.

Zatanna casts a look at her Martian friend, and she nods, minutely, crossing her legs and lifting to float several feet above the ground. She hustles Wolf down the hall, directing him towards furniture to sniff out, and then backs into another room, wary of interfering. The room is dark, and her first instinct is to whisper "_Lumos." _Nothing happens, and she gives herself a little shake of the head, but doesn't have the heart to really chastise herself. It's a habit she's had since she's been little – ever since she first read Harry Potter books and her father had begun to fill her head with ideas of true magic. The events had coincided, and ever since, she'd always tried to light her way in the dark using the same pointless phrase.

She gropes on the wall, hoping against hope that the power has switched back on, and she'll be able to flood the room with light. No such luck. She sighs, and turns to the solid darkness, muttering a half-hearted , "Sthgil no." The bulbs flicker with energy, even though she's never been quite sure of where the energy to power them comes from.

She walks into the room, the kitchen table with the chairs tucked neatly beneath it moved into the centre. The entire room is lined with countertop space, the appliances no doubt tucked neatly in the cabinets below. Nothing is visible, nothing is out of place; the house is so lonely, so empty. It reminds her too much of her house nowadays – the rooms are so lifeless, so void of expression or emotion. What Artemis' house looks like now, she imagines. She wills her eyes to clear, and takes a cursory glance around, ready to leave.

The curtain above the sink is tucked into the corner. She stands, cautious, curious, and moves towards the window, steps soft and hesitant on the tiled floor. Peeling away the kitschy, carrot-themed fabric, she finds a single glass sitting on the windowsill. Her breaths, for a moment, stop coming.

She drops the edge of the curtain, and wonders why Robin never noticed it. Did he not think it was important? Did he assume that it had been placed initially as a candleholder, and never used? It doesn't matter – it's not a particularly conspicuous or sinister event, at any rate. Her fingers skirt nervously around her forehead. "_Wohs em tahw ehs detnaw em ot ees."_

Her eyes strain to focus as the kitchen blinks once, twice, straining to superimpose the previous images over the ones that stare at her now. The colours change, blurred and foggy over what was once a crystal clear picture. A girl sits, tall and comfortable, at the kitchen table, the chair pushed against the counter where the magician now stands, her golden hair gathered into a short ponytail at the nape of her neck.

"How long is this going to take?" The voice floats over from the next room, light and _catty_. She nearly jumps, but the girl merely rolls her eyes, arms cupping her chin as she stares at the darkened doorway, the shadows brightened by the light in the kitchen. The soundless padding of her feet as she slips into the kitchen has its own brand of silence – one that she would recognize from the other side of the _street._

"I just needed to get some things in order, alright? Calm down, everything's set." She unfolds herself from her seat, moving gracefully to the sink and filling a cup with water. The bubbling of the liquid as it splashes against the walls of the glass is the only sound in the room, the smile reflected over her shoulder in the window, more predatory without the mask.

"Awfully calm for someone about to be carried away by the executioner, aren't you?"

"Awfully chipper for someone who's about to off their own little sister." She takes a slow sip. "But I guess it's just another fringe benefit for you, isn't it?"

The brunette purrs as she stalks over, pressing the blonde against the counter. "Oh, you know I love you baby sister. _I _would never do anything to hurt you."

"But I assume your . . . _friends _won't be as generous?"

Black hair sways as she turns, waving an airy hand. "Well. I wouldn't worry too much about that. I don't really have any _friends_." She takes a seat at the wooden table, kicking her heels onto the surface. Artemis moves over, shoving her feet off the polished tabletop and slapping her on the ankle. "Be nice. This isn't my house, you know."

"And the Shadows are always such _gracious _guests."

She frowns, downing the glass in one go, and backs up against the counter, rinsing the cup with a splash of water and tucking it surreptitiously on the sill. The older girl watches her, eyes chasing her movements with a laziness that borders on arrogance, and grins when she turns back to face her. "Before we go, mind if I ask a question?"

The blonde's tone is wry as she lifts her hand in a one armed shrug. "You just did, but I'm feeling generous today."

The glinting points of her Sais catch the light as she twirls them idly in her hands. "Why just give yourself up after so many months of running? Why not just disappear?" The question is serious – almost concerned, but the girl with the ponytail remains unmoved.

"_Shhh_," she whispers, lips pursed minutely. "_It's a secret_." And then the shadows in the doorway grow budding limbs and heads and torsos, and she's swallowed in the blackness.

_Zatanna? _The voice is soft and hesitant, probing softly at the threshold of her mind. She doesn't realize that her white kid gloves are clasped tightly to her mouth, or feel the shuddering, shaking breaths she's taking. She's barely even realized that the kitchen has resumed its previous, lazy, clear yellow glow. _Yeah? I'm in the kitchen._

A green head pokes itself in, the freckles wrinkling in adorable distress. _Are you alright? I was feeling some really weird vibes coming from in here. Really sad and . . . _She searches for a word, warm brown eyes constantly searching in blue. _Piercing. _

She nods her head, her hands circling her shoulders, hugging herself tightly. _Yeah. I'm fine. It's just . . . _She takes a look around the kitchen and recalls the first things she felt when she'd walked in. _Another home without a family, you know?_ Her voice is so wistful and sad that her friend doesn't pursue the subject, walking over instead to give her a warm embrace.

She nuzzles her raven hair against her neck, eyes closed. _Sorry, I'm just being stupid, I guess. _

_No!_ The force of the word shocks her, and she turns to look at her friend. _It's not stupid at all. Look, _she tries, hands moving to her forearm, _if you want to get out . . . _She turns, watching as the large white animal lumbers past the doorway. _I'm sure Wolf and I can handle it from here. _

Her brows furrow, guilt playing in her face. _Are you sure? If you still need help . . . _

_It's fine. I'll tell Robin and Wally, for you, so you can just pack up and head out. _

The relief must show, because the Martian girl gives her a warm smile, and the directions to the nearest zeta tube, waving away her protests as she shuffles her to the front door. The warm night air forces the blood to start flowing again and she breathes in gratefully. The stars are already winking out in the sky.

The street is deserted, but she isn't surprised – it's far too early in the morning for people to be up and about just yet. She turns into the park three blocks over, searching for the broken maintenance booth – a small concrete shack at the perimeter of the fence. It takes her a moment to jiggle the door open, and she isn't sure if that's in some part due to the fact that her fingers are still shaking.

The booth is mildewed and cramped, and she shuffles uncomfortably for a minute before she's engulfed by the bright warm light.

She doesn't waste time, when she gets in. Just walks straight towards the garage and hops on her bike, revving the engine and enjoying the solid feel of it. It's been a while since it's been warm enough for her to take out.

She roars over the pavement, tracing the path to a corner street that she's visited with a friend more times than she's counted, waiting for the broken lights to flash in her peripheral vision. And then they're screaming at her, in bright, garish neon, and she kicks the bike onto it's side, clattering against the fence as she slides her back down it, her helmet off, taking in deep, gulping breaths of the cool early morning air.

She doesn't always come, but she can feel her presence almost as soon as she's seated on the ground, her unspoken curiousity and sympathy a welcome friend. She knows even though she doesn't speak, that she already knows what's become of her blonde companion.

They used to come here, after that first thrilling, solo adventure, just the two of them. They'd spend the night together, riding on their bikes and taking down petty criminals and making a genuine girls night of it (if unconventional), and then they'd get ice cream or pastries (always with one for _her _too), and they'd sit against the fence and talk to her.

No one else would have understood it – most nights, she didn't put in an appearance at all. But it was a connection they had – the three of them – that didn't have to be understood, really, to be appreciated. And they'd shared their lives with each other, and the archer had given her a small glimpse into what her life had been like, growing up with her parents. What a difference it made having her mother home. The warmth and the affection in those moments were so unrestrained and opened that it had become something intimate and private and special between them.

And the magician, of course, had reciprocated in kind. She gazes blankly, almost sullenly, at the overturned bike, and remembers the things she had told her friends, in quiet confidence – in _secret_. Things like the way her house looked when she passed it on the street, and she knew none of the lights were on. Things like the way she used to sit with her father in front of the hearth as they made stories come to life with the smoke. Things like the way she'd wake up in the middle of the night with terrifying dreams, and she'd walk down to the kitchen and drink a glass of water and leave it on the windowsill, so that when her father came downstairs the next morning he would know if she wanted a hug. Things that she missed.

She rests her head on her knees, her dark hair spilling across her arms. The last thing the girl had said in the homey, unused kitchen – it had been something just for her, she was sure of it. Her voice comes muffled through the fabric of her sleeves, as they get progressively more damp. "She thinks she's your brother." Her throat is dry. "_Harm."_

It's such a stupid thing for her to think too. It's not some stupid, selfish, twisted, sadistic reason that led her to do what she did. She was driven into a corner, forced someplace unthinkable! But she went with them anyway because she believed what Wally had skulked and moaned about those first weeks after she'd left. She believed she deserved the retribution.

"_Secret_." The whisper brushes past her ear, sending a comforting warmth down her spine.

"I know," she mumbles into the fabric of her pants. She's not like him – could never be like him in a million years. No matter how hard her father pushed her.

She's the victim.


	8. One step forward, Ten steps back

_Author's Note: I feel really bad about how long it took me to update, so here, have this chapter that I wasn't going to write or even include until Conner and Roy bewitched me with feels._

* * *

He's the first one who tries to leave the Team. His shoulders are hunched and his posture is angry, and a terrifying cyclone of grief and despair and fury are driving through him, propelling him on, and on, and on, until the training dummy is nothing but a few scraps of cloth and a handful of foam pellets on the gym floor.

It's the third one he's destroyed in half an hour.

He yells and screams, and even when that stops, his silences still manage to convey the full depth of his wrath, perhaps all the more terrifying for the abstractness of the threats. His presence in the Cave only persists because he isn't quite sure, just yet, where he's going to go.

His rage is split; towards the Shadows, who are going to kill her; towards himself and the Team, for their inability to help; towards, most of all, their mentors, who had it within their power to protect her. Towards the Justice League, towards _Superman_, who were supposed to stand up for Justice and Honour and Fair Play and Decency. Who wouldn't even kill one of their _enemies, _wouldn't even condemn _them _to their death.

And it's telling, this disgust, this ferocity, because one day while M'gann is in the kitchen, burning something in the oven and staring listlessly at the static on the television, he finally just stands up. Wolf and Sphere follow him, needing no instruction, needing no prompting, and when he walks out of the doors to the Cave he rides with them towards the horizon, with no real destination in mind expect _far, far from here._

He's finally had what he's been looking for his entire life – the approval of _Superman _himself. Except he realizes that he doesn't want it anymore. He doesn't want anything to do with someone who could turn his back on family – because that's what she is, he knows, knows without consideration or questioning; she's family – and continue with their lives, unconcerned with their fate. He almost feels the revulsion rising, disgustingly large in his throat; as if he could simply release all that bile and poison that he'd swallowed; all those lies.

They stop together, the sand skidding beneath his feet as he jumps out, walking over to the ocean on a beach across the country. Calm. Peaceful. Empty. M'gann had taken to filling his mind with images like these when he'd been restless, unsettled, angry. Images of the things that she found most beautiful about Earth – a planet where both of them were strangers. And her mindscapes were always detailed, realistic, so close he could almost swear that he was experiencing it firsthand.

But it was still second to being there in person.

She never contested that fact, never became insecure about the quality of her imagination and power. The world was so vast, she had explained, so new and precious and unknowable, that it would be impossible to capture every nuance as perfectly as life did it for you. So when they had free time, or even on nights where neither of them could sleep, they would wander to the beach and appreciate the way the waves would crash on the shore and the wind would caress their hair and they would feel like this was starting to become a home.

He kicks off his boots and wades, ankle deep in the water. A home – something that he'd always thought meant a safe place. Did that just mean that Artemis had never been a part of their home? That she'd never been accepted? His hands clench into involuntary fists at his sides, and he screams at the water and the slowly sinking sun – screams out his frustration and heartache.

How does he know if he was accepted either?

His toes dig into the sand, and he raises a hand against the glare of the light coming off the water. He could keep going if he wanted – all the way to the other side of the world. But there's nowhere really, that he can go to escape. Not on earth. _He_ can go wherever he wants, just by flying there. _He_ can force his way back into a life he'd been reluctant to enter in the first place.

It's the first time he's ever felt more trapped than he had in that Cadmus pod.

He almost laughs.

* * *

She'd blinked, surprised, when she realized, halfway through the programme, that he'd left – gone somewhere else. She opened her mind a bit, reaching with her thoughts into the corners of the base, wondering when she'd feel the presence that felt like warmth and solidity and an innocence about people and the world on a level nearly equal to her own. When she realized he wasn't at the base, she deflated against the countertop, pushing herself away and going to turn off the television, only just noticing that she'd only been watching static for the past three hours.

She turns to the stove, unbothered by the smoke pouring out of it, and readies the fire extinguisher before opening the metal door. The spray goes off as soon as she sees the bright orange peaks of flame dancing on the baking sheet. _I couldn't even give cookies like these to Wally_. His name pops out, prominent in her mind, and she feels almost as though she's broken some sort of taboo she's unaware of. She levitates the foaming heap, realizing as she drops it over the compost that she might have been trying to make a jelly roll.

She can't really remember, anymore.

She wanders, listless, out of the kitchen, trying to find someplace where she can go for peace of mind. The toes of her shoes drag along the floor as she floats dejectedly along the hallways, unwilling to go back to her room but unsure of where else she could turn. She stops at the open door of the Olympic-sized swimming pool that the League had renovated after the Team's situation at the base. Signs of having just been worked on still clung to the walls and doors; bright, shining hinges, freshly painted walls and signs.

She closes the door with a _Bang! _More firmly and finally than she really needs to, and it echoes down the hallway, magnified by the space and emptiness of the base. When she'd been looking for Conner, she'd never really noticed that no one else had turned up in her mental scan.

She wanders past the area where she and her friends had once broken into Red Tornado's bedroom, and found his humanoid android unfinished and unclothed upon a slab. Her eyes flit upwards, involuntarily, and she wonders vaguely if he's here right now.

The Cave is too big and empty and filled with too much negative emotion, hanging like residue from the ceiling and dripping from the walls. She feels almost as though she's wading in it, and she tucks her feet unconsciously beneath her, as though she can lift herself above the terrible mire of feeling. She can still feel it dripping from her, surrounding her, and she knows that it's probably flowing from her (from her heart), too.

The open air catches her hair and the edge of her skirt once she's made her way into the open bay. She turns to her Bioship, still and quiet and sleeping, and wonders if she wants to wake her, if she wants it to take her somewhere else. But she doesn't want to bother it, doesn't want to be the one who runs away, and suddenly she can feel something, wet and warm, coursing down her cheeks.

Her feet have lifted off the floor, and suddenly she's launched herself through the air, the wind wiping the tears from her face as she stares straight ahead, into the wide, infinite blue of the sky. And there's so much more, she thinks, so much more beyond that bright cerulean ceiling, and she reaches a hand without thinking, hoping to brush the floor of the atmospheric cage.

She stops short; withdrawing it once she sees the slight edges of her fingers outstretched, and brings it back against her chest. She can't leave – she isn't going to go back. Her uncle had taken her aside after that one late night visit, the house abandoned and empty and soulless, and she'd tried as hard as possible to keep whatever resentment she'd been experiencing out of her psychic aura. But the disappointment had been cut, deep, into her skin and her bones, malleable though they were, and he could feel it, she knew, suffocating him, surrounding him, forcing him to accept the way her views had changed.

He'd tried, desperately, to make her understand, his thoughts probing and hopeless and sad, and she'd turned them all away, inside out, against each other. She wouldn't embrace him, wouldn't let him hold her, curling in on herself and pretending that she couldn't feel the tugging at the edges of her mind. The wall had been an accident of her overly emotional power, forcing a terrible, physical, cold wall between them. He'd withdrawn then, the expression on his face nowhere close to expressing the pulsating depths of his sadness.

Her eyes stare without seeing into the blinding sun, a film automatically covering her eyes and filtering out the most harmful of the rays. She hates the way things have become. She misses the way she'd been able to hug her uncle, been able to join with his mind and seek the familiarity and happiness of the family that they had become. But she had been building an Earth family too, hadn't she? An Earth sister that had disappeared into the despair of a sweet suburban night some days ago. Weeks, actually.

She turns onto her stomach, floating slowly with her chin propped on crossed arms, and waits, suspended in the nothingness of the sky, for the low, slow-moving clouds to engulf her in a fog. She thinks, maybe, that she even if she can't leave, can't move, she can make herself disappear for a little while.

* * *

It doesn't take very long, in this line of work, to make friends with your teammates. Being in life-or-death type situations together, trusting each other to take care, to help out, to keep you alive. It fosters the kind of bonds that most people spend years forging in the relative safety of the normal world. She has friends there too, of course, but it's different. Somehow, she knows, it won't ever be on quite the same level as this.

She'd stood outside the door though, still feeling that it would be too intrusive, too much a violation, to go inside. Like desecrating a grave, she thinks for a moment, and the thought automatically makes her sick. She doesn't want to think she's dead, not now, not yet, not ever. But she remembers the threats they had left in Star City, blown up on the large glowing display between them and discussed in hushed tones among the Leaguers, never meant for her ears or her eyes. Just the merest suspicion of remembering it makes her retch.

It's only a matter of time.

And Icon – oh God, to think that he let it happen; not only let it happen but stepped in their way as they had tried to _do _something. A tall, fierce band of fully functional Leaguers against the might of teenaged superheroes. They'd won once before, but it had been a physical fight then, easy to combat. Now they resorted to policing them instead; forcing them away. They hadn't been able to escape even for the brief time during which they had turned their backs on their mentors, determined to work on their own, to do whatever was necessary.

The wood creaks as it opens, and for a brief, generous second, she believes that the room's host is inside, opening the door for her; inviting her in. But the face that peers out at her is fair and glowing, with blue eyes and black hair and the unmistakable sign of having been crying, hard, for the past few hours. "I heard someone outside," she says, by way of greeting, and she moves from the doorway, making room for her to enter. She hesitates, still unsure, but the slight back is already turned, and she's gone and deposited herself on the bed, where the wrinkles and disorder indicate she'd been sitting all along.

She doesn't say anything to her as she takes the first hesitant steps inside the room, doesn't ask her how she managed to get in through the front door, doesn't ask why she came _here._ Blue eyes stare heavenward as her neck tilts back, and Raquel wonders what she sees beyond the flaking white of the stucco ceiling.

Her fingers trail along the duvet covers, thick with dust now, and remembers when they had sat there, together in the dead of night, talking and laughing and sharing their warmth. And she and Zatanna, the two of them, had woken early and wandered over to the kitchen and decided that they'd all eat breakfast together, rooting through cupboards and the dishwasher and making a general ruckus too early in the morning.

The bed groans as she sits, and she turns to her friend and wonders what she should say. If there are any words, really, for the two of them to share now that the third isn't here. The window is open, she notices, and she wonders if the prints they'd made on the sill have yet been blown away. A slim-fingered hand lifts beside her, following constellations she can't see.

She wants to say something, to share her condolences, to wallow in their shared misery, when she sees the light glancing off a framed photograph on the bedside table – one she hadn't noticed, doesn't think, in fact, was there, that night they'd stolen into her room in the dark and waited. A young blonde girl and a tall man smile out of the glass. Not Artemis, she knows. She wonders briefly if it's a photograph of a friend of hers, or whether or not the picture simply came with the frame.

* * *

Her limbs feel heavy, and the effort it takes for her to lift her arm up to trace the pattern of their relationship makes her sink further into the bed. It's a map that's projected from beneath her swelling eyelids directly onto the pristine white of the ceiling – an album filled with memories. She'd looked of course (scoured the apartment; really), trying to find the scrapbook she'd made with the other girls for her birthday. She doesn't know what its lack of presence indicates. Did she take it? Did they?

Her eyes are burning and tired from the tears she's already shed. She isn't sure how long it's been, now. She remembers, vaguely, stealing the photograph from an empty, broken house, and bringing it with her to another one when the streets were still dark and the stars were hiding. But then, there isn't really anything here that she could have brought over there. She doesn't look at it, but she knows it's there, knows it was given with permission and hesitantly taken, and knows that it represents two conflicting points of view.

Why do the people she loves always leave her? Trying to protect her, trying to save her, trying to do what's best, and she wonders when it all became one and the same. She hates it – hates them, almost, for making decisions she can't abide by.

The slight rustling of the sheets, and the shifting beside her, reminds her that she isn't the only one in the still lonely room. She'd noticed, barely, in the peripheral of her awareness, that her friend had been struggling with some internal monologue, trying to decide if there were words that still needed to be said. But what sort of comfort was there, in something like this? That they'd tried? Because it hadn't been enough – despite whatever motivational speakers and life coaches and teachers and guidance counsellors and well-meaning friends would tell you, trying was very seldom enough.

Her thoughts are swimming, emotions boiling in turbulent waters beneath a deceptively calm surface. It isn't until the hand entwines, gently, with her still-reaching fingers, that she realizes she'd broken the silence. The blanket beneath her is wet against her skin, and the words are whispered and desperate in a raw throat. _Tcetorp reh. Evas reh. _

It's something she'd taken to saying, repeatedly, when she'd gone home that one long night days ago. It had started in the silence and comfort and sadness of the dilapidated garden, in anxious, breaking sobs despite the fact that she knew her magic was too far away to reach her – to have any real effect. The breaths were unsteady and noisy as she was crushed under the weight of her own empty words and personal futility, and she'd felt the presence of Greta behind her, distressed in her own private way, although she had a piercing suspicion that the worry had been divided between **two** teenage girls she knew.

She'd managed some combination of walking and gliding back into the empty house, and she'd stood and followed, only too glad for some other purpose to occupy her shaking body. They'd walked over rotting floorboards and a kitchen that remained nothing but rubble, and she'd stopped in front of a picture that they'd glanced at, once, when they'd been running through the house both terrified and exhilarated and cautious. She'd gestured with glowing hands towards it, and she'd reached with white-gloved fingers, glancing at her with every stilting movement. The slight nod once she'd had it cradled in her hands had apparently signalled the end of their excursion. She was left alone, in a darkening, silent house, with the memories of someone else's secret, someone else's happy life, tucked cautiously in her arms.

She wasn't entirely sure why she'd taken it – what purpose it was supposed to serve, why it had been given to her. But she brought it with her when she woke up, sweating and crying and sad, and run to the only place her feet had thought to carry her.

It was worse, when she arrived, because she'd realized there was no possible magic that would bring her to the window, her hair gleaming in the light cast by the streetlamps as she welcomed her inside.

She looks up into kind brown eyes, sad and still and despairing, and feels a quick squeeze before her friend's attention detaches itself from her own brand of mad desolation, and lies down beside her. They don't talk – they don't need to, she realizes – and she lets the silence of the room echo in the corners of her brain, heavy with the weight of things unspoken.

Her mind turns as they tangle the sheets, restless and tired both, and she wonders when her life will be able to begin again. It took her _weeks _to move beyond her father's relative disappearance beneath the damned golden helmet, and longer than that to stop waking up with fresh tears on her face. And even that, she knows, isn't as permanent a separation as what's occurring right now. On good days (both few and far between), Fate relents, just a little bit, and lets her talk to him. Lets them reconnect, briefly, before he snatches him away from her greedy, unsatisfied embrace.

But when will the girl with the flowing golden hair come home? When will her laugh ring beside her in wildly whipping winds, when will her snark and her sass and her self-confidence reveal itself again, large and vocal and present, even through her sullen silences and worry. When will she stop looking out the window, waiting for her to tap on the glass and come in?

* * *

"They could use you now, you know?"

Hands still as they pack the arrows into the briefcase, and the redhead turns, eyebrows raised and frown deep. "So what was I doing there before?"

The blonde shakes his head, hands raised in a gesture of surrender. "I don't – You know what I mean, Roy."

"Are you trying to . . . ," he pauses, stiff. "Demote me?" It's a half-hearted dig. Even after discovering that he wasn't who any of them had thought him to be, (himself included), they hadn't once thought to remove him from their ranks. He had proven, in those years, that he was capable. Deserving. Had proven, most of all, once his programming had run out, that he was worthy of the title. Proven it to everyone but himself. After all his hard work (only because he'd been _made_ that way, he reminded them), after everything that he'd been through, he'd turned them down, quitting on his own.

He knows the harried man in front of him is only trying to help – it's difficult, after all, to demote someone who has no rank – to make sure that after this, yet another devastating blow, that they keep an eye on him, surround him by people who care. Keep the younger ones guarded and looked after, now that they've decided they want nothing to do with the League. It's hard to be angry though. There's something in the fact that he didn't turn his back on him once they found out who he really was – something he knows Conner envies, to some extent.

"Team has a vacancy for an archer," he tries again. "That's all."

But he laughs the empty words away. "She's irreplaceable."

The moustache bristles, and he can see the muscles working in his throat. "You're not her replacement."

"No," he agrees, "not hers."

The man softens, stepping closer, arm outstretched. "Roy –"

The young man shrugs him off. "You shouldn't have done it Ollie."

The arm drops. "I know." He sounds defeated, tired. "But I couldn't refuse her 'last request'."

"DON'T –" he starts, but the strength of his conviction dies in his throat. There really isn't anything else to call it. "Why did you let her go?"

The laughter, when it comes, is both harsh and wistful. "You think we didn't try? All of us? Why do you think it took her _months _to leave?" The redhead doesn't answer, but his hands still over his case, arrows only half-tucked inside. "Because of US. We did everything we could think of, everything we know, to slow her down. But we couldn't stop her. Even tried to kidnap her, once or twice." His voice lowers, and they can both hear the self-justification in it, the pleading to be understood; forgiven. "She was trained by the goddamn _Shadows_."

His fingers tighten on the lid as he lowers it, closing the latch. He remembers, once, when he'd used it against her – her alien-ness, her lethality – as a reason to call her traitor. He wishes he could laugh at the irony of it.

He wonders if it's selfish, the way his priorities are turned.

"And I was made by the Light."

* * *

He's taken to sleeping at the Cave, recently. It isn't quite as comfortable, but the rooms are generous, and his friends have graciously figured out how to flood a small space for him. It was quite a tricky little feat of engineering, but he doesn't spend much time in it, and he feels guilty even though he knows it was only an elaborate diversionary tactic for his friends.

He knows they're aware of his reasoning behind the prolonged stay at the Cave. And they know he has every right to be concerned. He stayed right away, that first night, and the magician had woken in the middle of it, screaming spells at the top of her lungs, between breathy, heaving sobs. No one had exclaimed or stirred – no one else had even managed to get to sleep. They'd all gathered, instead, in the hallway outside her door, wondering whether or not they should intrude.

M'gann had attempted to contact her mentally, but she'd been too unstable, and in the end Robin had resorted to the tried-and-true method of rapping on the door with his knuckles, calling softly into the silence. "Zatanna? Are you all right?"

They could hear the hastily calming breaths she took as she fought for the capacity to respond. "I'm fine. I'm sorry, I'm fine, go to bed."

He ignored her of course, pushing the button and stepping in as the door slid on gliding rails. The rest of the team (for the most part), stood silhouetted in the doorway, peering in with varying degrees of concern and sympathy. "If it is all right with you, I am coming in anyway."

She nodded, barely looking up, and beckoned with a slack arm for the rest of the teenagers to file in too. Her head had dropped onto gathered knees, and she'd mumbled from beneath a curtain of raven hair. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you guys, I just couldn't sleep," she started, her voice raw, "And that was just one more . . . So I thought I could force myself. A spell or something." She shook her head, wrinkling the fabric of her blanket. "Guess it didn't work as well as I was hoping."

The Martian girl floated towards her, alighting on the bed with Wolf on her heels. Her arms were warm on her shoulders. "None of us could sleep either." Raquel sat on her other side, sandwiching the young witch in the middle, and soon the boys had all piled on as well, arms and limbs spilling awkwardly over the sides. "Maybe we could just all . . . not sleep, together."

It had been like that for the rest of the week; with the team huddled together in the dead of night in the living room (the bedrooms didn't really have the capacity to hold so many people at once). The girls had taken the couch, while Conner and Robin had graciously retreated to the floor – a small wading pool set up in the corner for himself that he took without preamble, despite the fact that he thought it was probably nothing more than a weak joke.

Afterwards, when they had calmed down, when they had forced themselves to move forward, they had fallen into fits of sporadic sleeping at all hours of the day. It was typical of the situation – it wasn't that they were trying, anymore, to get some rest, but that they were so tired they couldn't help inadvertently nodding off.

Sometimes this results in quiet shouts, other times, with red eyes and silent faces, but it's a small improvement. Even Kaldur himself takes to sleeping sometimes, passing the brunt of the Team's well-being and supervision onto the youngest and most mature of the group. He chooses an hour when it is most likely everyone else will be well occupied and able to function, and he wanders to the room his friends had so kindly flooded, determined to get some use out of it, however small.

It isn't easy, though, to drift off. He keeps telling himself, as he treads water, as he swims and stretches and does laps, that she is alright. That she had been trained by them, _with _them, and she knew what to expect. That she is tougher than she looked, tougher than she acted (and that must mean she's quite tough indeed), and that she has it in herself to survive, to _live._

But when he finally does manage to drift off, to sleep, it's short lived.

Because the only thing he sees when his eyes shoot open, is the shadow her bones had made against the snow.

* * *

He's trying to leave again. He can hear the sounds of his shouts, can feel the vibrations of it pulsating through the walls. He's stopped being docile and quiet – the frustration is killing him. He wonders when they'll tell them, and it strikes him that there's a high possibility that they never will. He sighs, rubbing a hand against a tired forehead, and turns to the centre of the storm; the gym.

Conner's fists are imprinted on almost every available surface. He stops at the door, waiting for his friend to take a breath, and wondering when would be a good time for him to interject. But it isn't just him, is it, that's walled up and trapped by his own misunderstandings and anger. When the young man finally takes a ragged breath, he projects his voice into the wide open space, staggered with the sound of his friend's violent heaving.

"I'm officially calling a Team meeting." His voice is sure and unwavering. "In the living room, twenty minutes." And he turns on his heel, walking back out into the hall and leaving his friend in the middle of his own debris.

It takes longer than twenty minutes, no surprise, when the gang is all gathered, strewn about the chairs and pull-out beds they've all adopted. He glances at their faces, worn and weary with vestiges of resentment still hiding in the lines of their eyes and their mouths. "You can't quit," he says, without preamble.

They look up with varying degrees of surprise at the abruptness of his speech, and he can feel the tension radiating from the cracking knuckles and clenched fists. "They aren't going to tell you, so I guess I will." His wrists twirl in the air and he stares at them, almost fascinated, before turning to his friends. "Despite everything that happened, she didn't leave on bad terms. Okay?" He stops them, judging by the looks on their faces, when he knows they're going to interject, loud and vocal. He pretends not to notice the way Zatanna ducks her head.

"They were just doing her a favour." He lets the weight of the words carry, striking in their chests and causing a new tide of tears to leak from the Martian's eyes.

Kaldur is the first to speak. He turns to his friend, his eyes boring into theirs, and clasps his hands firmly in his lap. "She ran away trying to protect us. Everything she did – it was a sacrifice on her part, whatever she could think of to keep us safe. "

"She could have trusted us!" The words barrel forth, and he marvels at the control it must have taken, to wait at least that long. "We would have helped!" His fists are shaking, and it's less anger now, more helplessness that makes him vibrate so solidly.

"She did not want to involve us in what she felt was a personal affair."

"Sportsmaster – _they – _we fight them too! They're our problem too!"

"But the vendetta against her was _personal_, Supes." His eyes are compassionate behind the lenses, and it isn't the first time he wishes he could take the damned thing off. "And to be honest, she felt really responsible."

A strange, choking sound comes from the magician's purple beanbag chair.

"So don't blame the League, okay? They were helping her out – keeping us out of her mess," he tries to remain neutral, but a bitter aftertaste leeks out of his mouth anyway.

"They shouldn't have done it." Her voice is loud and firm, despite the fact that it's the longest sentence they've heard her speak in days. He turns to her, and her shoulders are shaking.

"They did what they thought was best." Kaldur, again, attempts to smooth the distress. "Raquel –" But she turns away, standing with Zatanna and holding herself.

"If it makes you feel any better, they tried to take her back." He speaks into the awkward silence, and the revelation shows in the stricken visages of half the team.

"But –" M'gann's tremulous voice is the first to find itself, although it takes him a moment to realize that she's actually spoken aloud. "But why didn't they _tell _us? Why didn't they let us _know_ they were doing something? They must have realized –" She stops and he knows she's recalling the look on the faces of the Leaguers – their _mentors._

He shakes his head. "Because, they failed. And on top of that, the League can't publicly side with her. Not on this – it would bring the Shadows down on _everyone's _heads, not to mention all the public scrutiny."

Superboy cuts in, gruff. "But we could have _helped _them!"

"That's part of it too! They didn't want us to get involved, okay? And I'm not saying I agree with it, but it makes sense. You _know _we would have strong-armed our way into being a part of this rescue mission! And they've already been putting almost _all _their resources into it on the sly. They couldn't start pulling _everyone _into it. Why do you think our missions have been getting more and more complicated lately; more involved? More dangerous? It wasn't just a trick on their part to keep us occupied – they were using us to take care of everything they could leave us, so they could help her!"

His chest is heaving at the end of the unexpected burst of information, and he slumps forwards, hands over his forehead. He remembers, once, months ago, when he'd tailed Batman on one of his 'solitary' rounds around Gotham, and he'd come across him talking with a slight blonde girl, tiptoeing precariously on the ledge of the second tallest building in the city. The way her mouth had curved, and her eyes had looked, and the way he'd handed her a distinctly nondescript credit card and a slip of blank paper. The way she'd disappeared when a sudden flash of light had caught his attention. He'd gone home straightaways, after, and sat in his room, staring at the blank walls.

The next day, when he'd gone to the Cave, he'd broken every secure clearance network in the database.

"Look, I know it's terrible, okay? But even the _Justice League _couldn't get her back. That means, more than anything else, that she's better and tougher than any of us are giving her credit for. So stop walking around like you've given up on everything – on _everyone_."

Zatanna hiccoughs.

* * *

He hasn't been in at the Cave for weeks. He isn't even entirely sure, anymore, if he's still a part of it. He debates asking his friends, but he knows they'd never tell him he wasn't, and to be perfectly honest, he isn't sure that that's what he wants to hear.

He appreciates the way his friends had stood behind his manic trips and obsessive wandering. He appreciates the way his uncle had gone against the protocol and let him. He appreciates everything. He does.

But he's done, now.

He walks, sometimes, and even runs, although those trips are random and few. He's aimless and confused and frustrated, and by the time school starts, his mind has completely emptied. It's almost a relief to get back into the routine – study and work and try really hard not to fail AP English.

He even debates, for half a second, whether or not it would be morally reprehensible to join the track team. He decides against it, of course, in the end. But the thought is nice.

Sometimes they drop him a line, from the Cave, you know, to check in on him, see how he's doing. Sometimes he speaks with them as though he's moved completely past it, as though it's never been a problem, as though he's somehow managed to block this whole chunk of time from his memory.

But only sometimes.


	9. Waiting for the Ball to Drop

_Author's Notes: You guys are seriously the nicest reviewers ever. All your comments are so sweet – it makes me super happy! I promise I'll get back on responding to your reviews soon! And I'm really sorry about the time I took finishing this chapter. It's just . . . I'm so sorry. D:_

_(Also, you know, don't ever hesitate to drop a critique in my review box. That would be equally wonderful.)_

* * *

The setting sun slants light through his blinds, and he squints his eye against the uneven glare. He's thrown sideways over his bed, an opened copy of _Julius Caesar _beside him, his pen scratching fruitlessly at a half-filled page of English notes.

He's never been very good at English. It's too subjective, too open to interpretation. He prefers the even, strict guidelines that govern math and science. There's only one real answer, only one way to be marked or graded (barring some theoretical physics and the determination of the formation of RNA chains, but to digress). And here he is, attempting to make sense of a play written before he was born, and relating it to whatever the theme is that's scrawled at the top of his assignment sheet.

He hasn't seen the team in a while. Not altogether, not really. Conner's taken to staying with him, sometimes, now that he and Raquel have both walked. He doesn't think it'll last, not really, because he knows they won't be able to stay away. They crave the structure, the teamwork, the feeling of purpose and trust and being a part of something _bigger than themselves._ He can remember, vaguely, when he used to feel like that too.

The doorbell rings, and he rolls over onto his side, squinting at the clock in the rapidly darkening room. 5:30.

It feels later, for some reason, and he rolls up towards the door, speeding a little bit (for convenience sake), towards the front hall. When he's finally staring into the evening air, the face that peers back at him, silhouetted by the flickering streetlights, isn't one he'd been expecting.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, with genuine surprise.

"Nice to see you too," his friend responds, gently pushing his way through the entryway and towards the kitchen. He watches him glide smoothly into shadow in the windowless hall, and doesn't bother attempting to apologize. "Don't you guys have some sort of . . . group thing going on tonight? Or at least a . . . something else thing, with Zatanna?"

"Where are your parents?" The flicker of the kitchen lights illuminate a crown of glossy black. He's taller now.

He shrugs, used to the way his questions are tossed aside. "They went skating with some friends."

"And they just left you here alone tonight?" He's already at home, leaning, casual, against the countertop, as one hand rummages through his glass cupboard. The extra inches are disconcerting – he used to be able to rest his elbow on his friend's shoulder (mood-permitting, of course) – but now they're almost the same height. As the hand emerges from the depths of the cabinet, he remembers the way they used to hop on the countertop to grab their cups.

Maybe _he_'s gotten taller too.

"I told them I had plans with some friends tonight. What are you looking for?" He groans when one hand opens, triumphant, with the little golden opener nestled smugly in his palm. "How did you even know where that was? My dad moved it after that incident last Easter."

"Figured he would." The explanation is more than he expects to get, so he shakes his head and seats himself at the table, opening a wrinkled paper bag covered in pictures of half-naked men from Hollister. "Is there something you want to tell me Rob?" His friend makes a non-committal noise as he deftly plucks a glass from the forefront of a long line of tall-stemmed drinking receptacles. "I won't judge, I promise."

"His name is Zachary."

He nearly sweeps the bag onto the floor with a surprised brush of his arm.

"Are you serious?" He shuffles, a little awkwardly, as his raven-haired friend turns towards him, eyebrow arched over the dense black obscuring his eyes. "I thought you said you wouldn't judge?"

"Well, yeah, I mean, it's totally cool, I just . . . what about Zatanna?"

He nods absentmindedly, glass in hand. "He's her cousin."

"**Dude! **Her _cousin?_"

"Getting a little heavy there, Judge Judy."

He brushes aside the comment, incredulous. "And she's _okay_ with this?"

The smirk on his face is far too smug when he responds, "She _insisted _on it."

He scratches at his hair, the frustration and confusion and slight awkward uncertainty turning his cheeks a very similar shade. "Wow, uh, okay. I just. Uhh," He stutters, unsure how to respond.

"Yeah, I was kind of surprised too. But it's actually pretty sweet. He stays over –"

"**Okay**." The freckles have disappeared beneath the splotchy red his face has adopted; blended directly with his hair. "That is _great _and I am _So Happy _for you and everything, but too much info dude. I mean, okay, yeah."

The cackle that follows is slightly confusing, and he decides he doesn't care enough to pursue its meaning.

"You're not even drunk yet, and you're already red in the face."

He mumbles incoherently, and reaches for the Hollister bag, desperate for a distraction. When his calloused fingers close around the smooth neck, his attention is immediately diverted. He whistles as he pulls a bottle of Schramsberg champagne out of the bag. "What's the occasion?"

The shades slip, low on his friend's nose, as he peers over the lenses in an appropriately derisive fashion. "Do you even know what day today is?"

"Saturday. How'd you get this out of the Bat-fortress?"

"You doubt the ninja magic that I possess?" He walks over, small wine glass cupped delicately in nimble fingers.

"What, I don't get any?"

"Cups? No."

"So we're just going to guzzle expensive wine?"

He snorts. "Please. Like I'd bring you the expensive stuff – you'd never be able to appreciate it. This is barely hundred dollar drink Wall-man. And correction; _you_ are the one who's going to be guzzling. I'm having, maybe, two glasses."

"Can't handle the alcohol?" He laughs.

"Nope." His eyebrows quirk as he pops the cork, the wine spilling perfectly into the glass. "Just wanted to bring the both of us up to the same buzz."

He smiles, and downs half the bottle in one go, wiping the dripping moisture with the back of his hand. "So you came to visit me? Keep me up to date, I guess?"

"Yeah." He takes a deep swig from his glass. "I guess."

He grabs the bottle, sloshing it sloppily. "So how's the team?"

"Good, mostly. I haven't actually talked to a few of them in a while, but I've heard they're holding up pretty well. They've really starting to get their footing and they're thinking about adding some new recruits –"

"What do you mean you haven't talked to them in a while? Bats keeping you busy?"

His friend shrugs. "Not really. I mean, Bats and I have sort of . . . fallen out."

He waves a hand around airily. "So what's been keeping you out of the loop?"

"I've sort of gone the solo route."

He nearly chokes on the mouth of the bottle. "What? Are you serious? So you're off the team?" He shakes his head fervently. "But the team needs a Robin! Who's going to fill the quote for magical ninja kid?"

"Who's filling the quota for super speed ginger?" His eyes drop, and he speeds through. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. I'm not Robin anymore."

The bottle drops to the floor and his friend barely noses it upwards back into his hand before it shatters. "That's impossible. I . . . overheard the Flash talking to the Justice League about Batman and Robin's recent revelation with the Casings jobs."

"'Overheard?'"

"The uhh . . . 'police-scanner' that we built a couple of years ago."

A dark eyebrow is arched over the frames. "It still works? And Batman hasn't cut you off?"

The smile jostles his freckles, as he shrugs mischievously. "I may or may not be piggy-backing on the signal of a friend of mine."

"The frequency changes every week."

"So it does."

He stares, hard, at the thick black plastic and strains to see something besides his own face as the silence becomes strained. "It's kind of rude to wear your shades at the table dude. Besides being stupid, I mean."

Thin fingers reach up for the frames, flitting at the legs as if forgetting that they're there.

Wally isn't sure whether or not he knows, whether he can see, or whether he's just letting him, but he grabs the sunglasses and tosses them on the counter. "Spill."

Blue eyes meet his, steady and defiant. "I can't exist still tied to that leash. I mean, he's still Batman. He's still amazing and impossible. But he's a little bit too . . . not on the same wavelength anymore." Wally nods, remembering the brief looks, the stiff postures and gestures and touches. The arguments he wasn't supposed to hear (and probably wouldn't have if he hadn't figured out some new 'tricks' with that scanner). "And after a while, it got a little bit too tiring to keep having the same 'conversations'."

He shakes his head, raven hair glossy in the light. "So I walked out. Too, I guess." He turns to his friend and the corner of his mouth lifts, slightly. "How's Conner doing?"

"Fine, I guess. He hasn't stayed the last couple of days though, so you might have to get more up-to-date information elsewhere." The empty bottle spins on the table, briefly, when he swats it with the back of his hand, landing on the empty seat beside him. He picks it up and tosses it in the recycling.

"Well, how are _you_ feeling?"

He shakes his head. "Okay, I guess." He actually means it, a little bit, and bright red brows furrow in confusion and wonder. "Yeah. Okay. I mean, ever –"

"Great. Just needed to get the buzz going." His chair tilts on its hind legs and he springs out of the seat, graceful, and tosses Wally's own jacket to him.

"Wait, what is this?" Freckle-dusted knuckles grip the heavy fabric, fingers hooking clumsily into button holes.

Another eyebrow arch over frames he never saw him pick up. "It's your jacket, genius. I thought you told your parents you had plans with some friends tonight?"

"Yeah, well, I was _lying_."

He smirks. "Well not anymore. Aren't you lucky you have me?" He claps him on the shoulder. "Get your stuff on and let's go."

He almost dawdles, but decides against it. Mostly because it's dangerous to keep Dick bored and annoyed and _with too much free time_, but in small part because he _wants _to go. After all, Dick's never let him down before.

Black gloved hands throw open the doors and a small tornado of fresh snow whirls around their feet, instantly soaking the hems of their pants. He wonders if it's the alcohol when he realizes he's shivering, and he turns to the brunet, kicking haphazardly through the drifts at his feet. "Why couldn't we have _indoor _plans?"

* * *

He can hear the pounding beats through the thick soles of his boots – can see, almost, the mass of warm, happy, intoxicated bodies pressed into the small space, heavy and thick with comfort and alcohol and heat. The door Dick walks towards is small and unmarked, but the entire building is spotless, stark white, almost leaking into the ground, pooling at his feet in the high piles of snow. There isn't any doorknob, and it looks almost impossible to open anyway, now that the snow is roughly knee-high; pushed right against the door. His friend reaches a covered hand towards the wall directly beside it, and he thinks for a moment _doorbell, of course_, but he presses a small nick in one of the bricks in the wall, and the door sinks into the ground, snow and all.

He glances surreptitiously around, wondering whether or not this suspicious building isn't in fact some trap, and he isn't sure if the fact that there's literally no one on the streets (outside the alleyway, anyway), is worrying."Come on." He doesn't turn around, immediately expecting him to follow, and he's a little bit affronted at the implicit expectation of obedience (following anyway), finding himself somewhere the sounds of the outside world have been completely wiped away.

The inside hall is bright and clean and pulsing with the sort of happy music that he's used to hearing at the Cave around the holidays. His parents try, too, to take part in the spirit of things, but their music is classical and slow and soft and (just a little bit) boring; not that he'd ever have the heart to tell them as much. He follows, hands brushing the sides of the narrow walls.

"Wally!"

The voice is bright and clear and reminiscent of days flying through the sky in a smooth alien vessel, chasing the sun.

"Zatanna?" He spins clumsily on a heavily booted foot, nearly knocking into her as she bounds weightlessly over on slender heels. Her hair spins behind her, bouncing in and out of soft, curling waves, obscuring his vision as she circles her arms around his neck for a quick hug.

"Come in! It's been ages since we've talked! How are you?" A hand grabs, quick, at his, pulling him stumbling behind her into a wide, circular room. The stark blankness of the walls almost blinds him, and he closes his eyes, squinting into the space.

"Hey." The voice is deep and gruff, and he turns, surprised at the sound. "So this is where you've been holing up lately?"

Conner smiles, sort of, and gestures to the large white animal at his feet. "Figured I needed someplace for Wolf to hang out too."

He scratches at the back of his head, fingers tangling in strands slick with ice-cold water. "Sorry man. I wouldn't have minded, but there was no way my parents were –"

He stops him with a hand. "Don't worry about it. It's better this way anyway – get a chance to actually keep on top of things out here."

Ginger brows furrow petulantly. "Hey. I was on top of things."

"But you were barely talking to us Wally." When he turns, her mouth is lifted in a mischievous smile, the trail of hair falling from the ends of her fingertips as she releases it.

"I _was _talking to you guys. As if you'd ever give me a choice."

"Sweet as that is, two or three words does not a conversation make." He turns, betrayed, at the sound of the acrobat's voice. "What? I was _definitely _having proper conversations with you guys. Kept you up to date, took an interest in your lives, the whole deal!"

He scoffs. "'What's up?' is not _taking an interest."_

"And you weren't exactly keeping us up to date." She cocks a hip and raises an immaculate brow. '_I. Am. Fine?_" He smirks, lashes lowered as he bends to kiss her hand. "Took the words right out of my mouth, angel."

The acrobat and the magician take the transition in stride, welcoming the oddly natural return their speedster has made to his original trade; flirt and all around man-about-town. Sunglasses catch his eyes as they flash in front of the open surprise on Superboy's face, nearly stepping into his line of vision quickly enough for him to miss it.

"My boys are back!"

He's lifted without warning, limbs floating awkwardly in the energy as both he and Conner are lifted unceremoniously from the restraints of gravity, and crushed together in a smothering embrace, with the excited girl propelling towards them.

The soft jangling of her earrings as she moves makes him laugh.

"Raquel! What's up – I mean, how have you been doing? I am deeply interested in the events that have been occurring in your life."

She smiles, bemused, as she lowers them gently onto the plush white carpet.

"Five out of ten for effort!" A laughing voice calls, perched on the couch, sunglasses dangling from one hand, the other outstretch in the direction of the blinded acrobat.

"A solid two. The sarcasm was a little too thick, I think, for this performance."

"That was a solid eight at least, guys!" A pillow is propelled towards a stiff back, and he's flipped over it, eyes still casually shut. It hits her in the face, and she drops the glasses. They're over his eyes again before they hit the floor, and he's composed enough to throw out a casual question. "So, where's Zachy, Zee?"

"I've been good, THANK YOU VERY MUCH." Raquel's voice is projected, claiming attention and attempting to block out the giggling emanating from the other side of the room. "Been going back to doing what I was pretty much doing before I even met you guys."

"Been catching baddies left and right, huh?" The words are half wistful, half excited, but she notices the way his eyes grow flat in his face. "Yeah. Same old, same old. Anyway, what have you guys been up to since last I got you off your lazy asses?"

Conner snorts. "My ass and I were doing perfectly fine on the couch, thank you."

"Just school, stuff, you know." Wally interjects, shoulders shrugging in the universal gesture of 'nothing much'. She laughs. "It's hardly 'nothing much', Wally. You're on your first year of University."

He groans, head dropping into his arms. "Don't remind me. After the general degree, I'm not even sure what program I really want to be going into."

Dick turns, the bright white reflection on his lenses blanking out half his face, making him appear, disconcertingly, as nothing but a nose and mouth. "You've got plenty of time dude."

"Not as much time as you though, junior."

He laughs and turns to Zatanna, including her in this new conversation. "So what do you guys feel like doing tonight? We could stay in here if you want, this room is pretty _out_tense if you're looking to spend the night in style."

"I'm getting blinded just sitting in here. And I'm pretty sure I tried to sit on Wolf at least three times." Raquel quirks an eyebrow at the animal, slumbering peaceful and still against Superboy, who's already leaning back against a fuzzy white beanbag chair, the lines between the two indistinct.

"Just check this out guys, we can get a livestream of the square in here." He walks to a hinge on one side of the wall, flipping it open to reveal a full circuit board complete with toggle switches and an unnecessary number of blinking lights. The room dims, and the walls and ceiling are projected with the images of Times Square, already crowded with people and streamers and the blinking of obnoxiously festive lights. The roar of the crowd is muted, subdued; like incomprehensible lyrics put to a background of slow Christmas ballads. It's surprisingly cozy.

"Sorry guys, I can't. M'gann's waiting for me down there." Conner's already standing, hands brushing white strands of fur (from the carpet or the chair or Wolf, no one can guess). "I promised we'd spend the night watching the ball go up or whatever it is."

"That's fine." Zatanna's hair is flipped over her shoulder as she moves, too. "Zachary is waiting for us. He said he'd meet us before the countdown. And he said he'd bring us those really good Christmas dogs from that one street vendor we like."

Wally perks up, the promise of food already too tempting to resist. "What exactly qualifies them as 'Christmas' dogs?"

"We're eating them over the holidays?" She tries.

"But Christmas is already over." She slaps his arm playfully. "I'm eating yours if you're going to be like that."

"Or you could give it to me, this sounds like some quality epicurean adventure right here." She laughs, a soft chime. "I'll tell him to buy out the cart then."

Raquel stretches her arms over her head, muscles straining against the tight white stitches of her reindeer Christmas sweater. "Well, looks like things have been decided. Wally, since all these other lovebirds are all pairing off, you're my designated wingman tonight."

He snorts. "How much game are you expecting to score tonight? You know it's just going to be couples."

"Then you're my date for tonight if all else fails," she smiles, winking.

His laugh is full bodied and warm. "Great. You sure know how to make a man feel like second best."

"Well, first choice would have been one of those solid chocolate Santas," she starts, trailing off, eyes faraway. He nods sagely, bumping a fist against her casually wound hands. "Mine too."

* * *

The square is filled beyond any reasonable capacity, the woolen fibres of scarves and mittens and coat linings occupying every square inch of breathable air. He's inhaling nothing but yarn and down feathers and his own warm breath, still fragrant from the twenty or so Christmas dogs he's already downed (and that have certainly live up to the hype). It's not a bad sensation though; even the awkward tangle of limbs pressed flush against him, jostling him and generally getting into places he'd normally never allow is different somehow. Better. It's like the electric excitement and happiness and shared warmth has somehow changed the boundaries and definition of comfort and enjoyment, just for tonight.

_10_

Raquel's gloved hand worms its way into his, and without turning, he knows her eyes are shining, upturned, towards the giant glittering ball. It's this last bit of knowledge, of the idea of how well and intimately he knows them, that makes his heart stutter. He knows Conner and M'gann are huddled nearly smack dab in the centre of the crowd, able to get a better vantage point but eschewing it in favour of the authentic experience. He's sure that Dick and the Zataras are somewhere along the edges, just close enough to the crowd to barely be considered a part of it, both drawn into the commotion and still managing to be a separate entity unto themselves. And he's happy, he knows. Happy that he's here with them (even if they're all spread a little thin, just for the moment), and guilty that he hasn't made more of an effort to connect with them. More often.

_9_

He's been busy of course, but then, they have been too, and he remembers what it was like, trying to juggle so many vastly different aspects of one life. And maybe it isn't fair that he's been placing the burden of their friendship solely on their shoulders. He squeezes her hand, just briefly, and the smile she flashes at him is sweet and happy and more than a momentary glance. It's warm and joyful and so unguarded, so unconscious, and he realizes that it's been ages since he's seen such a natural expression on his friend's faces. He wonders just how long they've had to tiptoe around him, and he thinks that probably isn't fair either. How much has he missed, being so unfocused, so closed?

_8_

The crowd is swelling around him, surging upwards with baited breath as they huddle together, eyes watching the descent of the shining ball and grasping tightly to loved ones. It's a community feeling that's swirling in the air, floating like the glittering snowflakes that are settling on the ends of his eyelashes. Love and warmth and happiness. And being together.

_7_

The fingers that aren't clasped with Raquel's are starting to vibrate, keeping the temperature warm and toasty. He can feel the hum, too, that's starting in his boots, shivering as the movement spreads up his legs. It takes him more than a moment to realize that the shaking is in part a result of his excitement, too. It's a feeling that he remembers.

_6_

The excitement is mounting and he can feel it, almost tangible. He's shouting too now, counting along with the others, his cheeks flushed with the cold, his freckles nearly disappearing. It's nice to lose himself in the moment, he realizes. And then the thoughts stop, and he's being carried on tides of euphoria and breathlessness and anticipation.

_5_

His shoes tap on the ground, beating out an erratic rhythm, and Raquel is laughing openly beside him, only barely managing to gather enough breath to count the next seconds.

_4_

The lights of the square flicker as the timer gets closer to zero, and they cast the lights of his friend in a strobe of rainbow light.

_3_

The year is so close to being over.

_2_

She squeezes his hand once before she releases it, and his fingers are fumbling briefly in the cold.

_1_

Hugs and warmth and beautiful lights.

_0_

And he closes his eyes as the ball pops, sending giant clouds of buffeted confetti towards the revelers, screwing his lids so tightly together that the world explodes in white, and he can see the image of the new year painted over his eyes. A blank, empty, space.

Potential. Possibility.

Hope.

* * *

"Be honest," he starts, and his voice is soft and casual, floating over on tides of champagne. "What would you have done if I'd refused to go out with you guys tonight?"

His friend eyes him through his perma-stuck shades, not even squinting in the dim light of the bar. "What would you have done if you'd refused to come?"

He tips the glass in his hands without a single drop of the sparkling liquid spilling onto the polished mirror of the tabletop. "Good point."

The muffled sounds of inebriated celebration and dancing become a full-blown assault on the ears as the velvet curtain is pushed aside, and a glossy curtain of raven hair swings into their field of vision. The flushed magician stumbles gracefully onto Dick's lap, and reaches up with a delicate hand for enough leverage to kiss him. Wally watches, realizing belatedly that he's staring in a way that is none too polite.

"Enjoying the show?" he teases, without looking up.

"We'll be here all week, ladies and gentleman," she declares, as she comes up for air, doffing an imaginary top hat.

"What? But you guys," he stutters. A hand reaches up as he massages one side of his head. "Damn. Give me a couple seconds, I think I've actually overdone it on the alcohol a little."

His friend finally turns, taking a quick inventory of the assorted bottles assembled on the desk. There are nearly a dozen. "It's called being drunk, buddy."

Zatanna's brow furrows, her eyes clearing enough to look concerned. "He's not going to get alcohol poisoning or something, is he?" A quick kiss on the cheek doesn't stop her from starting to look slightly anxious, and he sighs, the breath catching just under her ear. "It's fine. He won't get alcohol poisoning for another dozen bottles." He shifts slightly on the black leather seat, though, and plucks the glass from his friends' humming fingers. "So I guess this is where I cut you off. You should probably head to the washroom. Alcohol runs fast, even in mere mortals such as myself."

He nods, head buzzing. "Right. Thanks. Got it." He's staggering to the curtain, when his head pops up, and he whirls over. "Wait. Wait." An accusing finger is pointed directly at the two brunettes, entwined in each other. "What about this? What about _Zachary?_"

She watches him, blankly. "He's at the bar. I told the bartender to cut him off though, so there really isn't anything to worry about." She reaches a hand up to ruffle the hair of her warm, human seat. "You won't have to worry about too much clean up in the morning."

"What is _going on_?"

His friend is far too amused, glancing back and forth between the uncomprehending expression on the faces of both of his friends. He lets it drag on for a moment before granting them the reprieve of an explanation. "Zachary is my new roommate. I was telling you about it before we left, remember?"

He shakes his head. "What? No. Vaguely?"

Zatanna clucks disapprovingly. "Really Wally, you should listen until the end when people are trying to talk to you."

"Listen to my girlfriend, man. She's schooling you in the art of proper etiquette."

He pushes out, groaning. "You guys suck."

The music in the club is loud, but he's sloshed enough for it to be slightly filtered; just a pulsing blend of low bass beats and gyrating bodies. He ambles between couples and friends, trying to carve out the straightest path to the men's washroom. It isn't until he's come up behind M'gann and Conner does he realize that his strategy is flawed.

"Wally!" The words are shouted to be heard, and it takes him a moment to appreciate the fact that it's also echoed in his mind, as though through a thick cotton filter. He turns, eyes squinting through the distracting light show that cuts through the darkness in a series of aggressive, frenzied attacks.

"Megan!" His bladder is throbbing, but he stops to wave in what he assumes is her general direction. It really has been a while since they've spoken to one another.

A hand comes up, resting solidly on his shoulder, and whirls him around. The movement isn't quite conducive for his current predicament.

"Conner! Hey have you seen –" he's cut off by the appearance of the plucky freckled girl behind him, her hair swept up in a messy bun, her customary sweater-skirt ensemble replaced by thick black wool stockings and a bright sweater dress. "Wally!" she tries again, but this time it's quieter and clearer, the smile that's stretched across her face never moving.

"It is you!" He exclaims, and she laughs and claps and throws her arms around him in a warm embrace.

"It's good to see you! I'm sorry I couldn't say hello earlier, but when Conner came to get me you'd all already wandered off!" She looks genuinely contrite for something that really isn't even her fault, and he attempts a soothing pat on the arm, hoping that his current lack of coordination doesn't turn it into something less than friendly. "Don't worry about it, we just all got kind of sidetracked. Sorry though, we should have at least said hi."

She brightens. "Well, you're saying it now!" She almost jumps a little bit, in her excitement, and it's quite frankly adorable. He can't remember when the last time was that he saw her smile so much.

Her eyes turn towards the flashing lights of the dance floor, and she turns to him hopefully. "Dance with me!"

He holds up a hand, smiling and turning to her boyfriend in an appeal for help. "Sure, Megs. Just give me a minute. I was headed to the restrooms and –"

"Come on, M'gann," the low voice cuts in, and she turns to him before the anticipation has even begun to drop from her expression. "I'll dance with you."

Her eyes light up brightly enough to rival the spotlights in the crowd, and he can see her making a conscious effort not to float away with him. He gives Conner a grateful smile, but he isn't looking at him anymore; his world has suddenly shrunk to the slight girl beside him.

He turns away almost a little too quickly, and this time on his single-minded trek, he tries for the path with the least interference.

* * *

He swings idly on the stool, legs kicking against the Formica tiles of the bar, one hand wrapped firmly around the handle of a beer mug, the froth of his root beer sloshing slowly over his fingers. His eyes stare, unseeing, at the reflection in the bar mirror, half obscured by dirty glasses. He can see a sludge stain on one, and he hopes the one he's holding was cleaned better than that.

He drops his forehead to the cool tabletop, trying not to moan through the pounding in his brain, and seriously regrets not listening to his friends in the booth the other night after they'd told him to give the alcohol a rest. He can barely string a coherent thought together.

A soft creaking and the squeaky sound of creased vinyl sound from his right, and he turns his head just enough to aim a bleary, bloodshot eye in that direction. A slender figure and light yellow hair are barely visible through his scraggly orange fringe, and he sits up so fast he nearly falls backwards off the seat.

The girl whips around as his arms begin to flail, just ducking successfully as he makes a wide swipe in the general vicinity of her head. "What are you doing?"

Her voice is light and clear and sweet, and it reminds him for a moment of a girl he'd once known in his middle school choir. He'd fawned after her for nearly two years, the entire embarrassing infatuation finally culminating in his being too nervous to wish her a happy birthday one day when he'd been charged with presenting her with the birthday cake. She'd refused to speak to him after that, although from what he'd heard about it, the ordeal of combing frosting out of waist length hair might have made him a bit sour towards someone too.

He raises his head as slowly and stiffly as humanly possible, and bobs apologetically. "I'm sorry. Just – lost my balance."

She smiles knowingly, and shifts so that she's facing him. "Really now?" she laughs. "There are easier ways, you know, to catch someone's attention."

He groans, and deposits his head back onto the tabletop, jerking upwards irritably as she raps her knuckles smartly beside his ear. "Root beer's never really been my go-to hangover quick-fix, but then, you look like you're an expert, so who am I to judge?"

He swats at her still rapping knuckles, his hand clamping down on hers to stop the noise. "I know, I know, it's just. Let me finish this first."

She grabs at his mug, and it's a sign of how bad he is that he isn't fast enough to stop her. "I think you've had quite enough Mr. –?"

"Mwrest," he mumbles.

"Alright then." She pushes the mug to the waitress, and stands, clapping her hands together. "I would direct you to the nearest coffee house, but it doesn't look like you'll be going anywhere on your own." She holds out a hand, and then pushes gently beneath his arm, finally gripping it firmly when he doesn't make any moves. His head lolls wildly about his shoulders.

"Oh my god, are you _asleep?_"


	10. Rude Wake-Up Calls

_Author's Note: Sorry! I know it took a long time for me to put up, and I think it still needs work but. Guys. If any of you want to beta for the next what? Two chapters. That would be awesome._

* * *

_Beeeep!_

He pokes his head out the window, hair disheveled and sleep carved into his eyes, and waves a fumbling hand to the sky. "Coming, coming!"

He stumbles over to his dresser, nearly tripping on the haphazard piles of laundry strewn at the foot of his bed, some of which he'd dumped there the night before. A foot catches on an outlying pant leg, and his knee crashes into a sharp corner of his desk, forcing a very uncouth word from his mouth. He's about to chuck the offending garment to the other side of the room, but the hem is still clean, and he figures it's still wearable, so he shrugs and shimmies into them.

He's in and out of the bathroom, barely bothering to even run a hand through his hair, before he's already running down the stairs, hand grabbing for the hanging strap of his backpack as he goes by the coat rack.

"Wally?" A curly red head of hair pokes around the doorframe of the kitchen, alerted by the sound of thundering footsteps wrecking havoc on the foundation of her stairs. He barely turns. "Going to the library to study, be back by eight, don't wait up!"

The door slams and the hall is suddenly eerily quiet.

"Was that Wally, Mary?"

His mother turns, stepping lightly back into the kitchen and wiping damp hands on her fluffy red apron. "Yes, it was." She turns a small smile towards the direction of the front door. "He didn't even stop for breakfast."

* * *

"'Bout time you came out Float," she jokes, hair swept behind her into a messy bun. A pair of heart framed sunglasses are pushed high up on her forehead, keeping the stray strands out of her eyes.

He pulls them off, dropping them over his own eyes, as he grins at her. "I told you not to call me that."

"What else did you want me to call you?" she starts, hand reaching towards the ignition.

"How about my _name?_"

"Hey, when I asked you what your name was, this is what you said."

"I was _trying _to order another Root Beer Float! _And _I was hung over, so I really don't think anything that I did during that brief lapse of judgement should be held against me for the rest of our friendship."

She snorts. "Well, that is when you said you wanted to _be _friends."

"Obviously by that time I was sober enough to realize what a _jewel_ you are," he laughs, only halfway to sarcastic. His hand reaches for the radio dial, powering it on, ears expectant. He winces when the pure sounds of bluegrass come floating from the stereo at decibels unsafe for human hearing.

"**Why**," he exclaims, hands clapping firmly over his delicate eardrums just in time to miss the sound of her reckless laughter. "I thought we were friends!"

"Why Mr. West," she turns, eyebrow arched, voice low. "Are you saying you would like to – pursue a _friendship _with me?"

He reaches blindly for the volume control as she demurs, "Why, I'm flattered. I didn't realize a gentleman of your distinction would ever so much as glance in my direction without the illuminating effects of alcohol."

"Ms. Brodner, if you keep that up I'll have to re-evaluate my now abstemious stance on the subject," he grumbles, the sounds of the music faded out to the back of the car at a whispered volume.

"Keep _that _up, and you'll have to get out Float," she responds, fingers tapping lightly on the sides of the wheel. "This car is a _friends only _privilege, you understand."

"In that case, it looks like my stance hasn't changed much after all."

He kicks his sneakers up onto the dashboard, and she stabs him in the ribs with two deftly pointed fingers. "Make a mess and I'll kill you."

He laughs, the sound fading into a low hum at the back of his throat, following the melody of whatever song it is that's playing in the background. She winds down the windows after a minute, and the light chill of the cool morning air is filtered in with the smell of burnt coffee and damp grass, and he closes his eyes, breathing in deeply.

He jerks up as the lumbering Chevy makes a sharp left turn, moving into the parking lot of the Taggert University Library. "If you're sleeping again, I swear to God I'm not dragging you into the library with me. I'm just going to roll up the windows and let you suffocate. Or freeze to death."

His expels a violent "Oof!" as she chucks his bag at him, the heavy textbooks striking him in the stomach. It's the first time he's ever been grateful not to have eaten.

He lifts the shirt, rubbing gingerly at the skin and she immediately dons her shades, exclaiming aloud and shielding her eyes from his blindingly pale skin. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Just turn it off!"

He scowls. "It'll turn off on its own if the skin starts bruising. Don't!" He backs away, scrambling for the door handle and sprawling out on the grass island, hand scraping the sidelong blacktop. "You keep away from me!"

"Fine," she shrugs, pulling a canvas strap over her shoulder. "You can buy your own breakfast then."

It's enough to get him on his feet and following her at a dogged pace, just out of throwing distance. "I hope you brought your credit card Liza!"

* * *

She's disappeared behind the thick mountain of dusty book jackets and yellowed pages, and he cranes his neck over the top trying to catch a glimpse of notebook, almost black with tiny marks and scrawled-in notes. "How the hell do you even read that?"

She snorts and shakes her head derisively. "I'm not writing it for _you_, you know. I can read it just fine." She tuts, shaking her head in mock disappointment, and his eyes follow the sheen of her hair, undulating in waves as the strands shift under the warm yellow light. "Eyes on your own paper, Mr. West."

He groans and drops his chin into his hand, staring unseeingly at the wall of text before him until the lines blur into a continuous striped pattern, words indistinguishable. He watches the dust motes as they float through the air, landing on the book covers and settling into the creases of the paper and decides that even that is more interesting than writing another damn page of reference notes.

"I don't think I can do it anymore," he starts, blowing slowly at the stack of pages and watching as they ripple in the slight breeze.

She touches him softly, hand comforting and warm on his upper arm. "Midterms are only a little while longer, and then we can go out and get drunk off our asses. I'm not taking you for coffee next morning though."

He turns his head and sighs, and that's when the sound of ink flowing smoothly over paper ceases. Her eyes are low and concerned and that one little beauty mark by her mouth is lost as her lips pull down, and she cautiously puts a hand on the back of his neck. "Are you alright?"

His smile is soft and blank when he gives it, and she's struck by the idea that he's an old VHS tape, suddenly wiped clean of nostalgic, honest, family movies and written over with a bland sitcom story, complete with canned laughter and carefully scripted ending. It's a strange feeling, to fall so fast into the sensation of strangers after weeks of being friends. She's perturbed, and she isn't sure what the appropriate measure to take is, what the right thing to say might be.

"Are you hungry?" The words are light and teasing and she turns too fast, her hair whipping by and catching him just under his chin. He starts, sitting straight and watching as it floats down on her back, and the moment has suddenly passed.

"Starving," he groans, and he stretches and starts stuffing notebook and pen and text into his shabby green backpack. "Excuse me?" Her eyes follow the movement incredulously. "We're not done here, I'm just going to grab us some lunch!"

He flops face-forwards onto the hard wood of the table. "I throw myself at the mercy of the court! Please be lenient with your conviction Judge Brodner! A reduced sentence!"

She almost laughs, a little bit, at the dramatics, and she grabs her things too, stretching as she stands. "Fine. Whatever. _I _can keep studying on that cafe over on Downsview. I'm not paying for lunch too, though, that's _your _treat."

He shrugs, because she eats like a rabbit and it's too much to make her buy him anything else – he's already eaten out half the stock of coffee cake and muffins in the library cafe. "Please, just being with me _is _a treat." The line is ruined by the yawn that punctuates it, and she flicks a careful finger at his incisors. "Ow!"

"I'll be in the car when you're finished . . . cleaning up." He glances down at the stacks of books he'd pulled from the shelves, with only a half-hearted intention of even going through them. They're all opened to various pages, the books no longer arranged by section. He grumbles as he grabs a handful in his arms, heading to the nearest reference stack. "Fine. Don't expect me out too soon," he frowns, peeking at the decimals on the top book. The shelf is at the very back of the room.

She gives a jaunty wave that he doesn't see, her footsteps soft and padding on the carpeted floor as she walks away. He waits until the door is closed to speed through the rest of the stacks, moving fast enough to send the pencil still on the desk rolling over the side. He's lucky today; the legal reference section is deserted.

He grabs his bag and swings over to the back exit, tripping down the slippery metal stairs and gulping in a deep lungful of fresh, crisp air. The traffic is slow on this side of the road, and he barely counts two cars speeding by him, ruffling his hair in the wind as he speeds just barely towards the redhead standing at the bus stop, hands pushed deep into his pockets and his frown etching lines into the scruffy shadow around his chin. He doesn't even look up when the thrumming vibrations underfoot stop.

"Hey, Roy."

The older man grunts, and turns in the direction of the road, refusing to meet his eyes. "Anything?"

His hands reach into the hidden pocket of his shoulder strap, withdrawing a paper rumpled and smeared and worse for the wear than forgotten shopping receipts put through the wash. "Last I heard was Angola." The sun is high overhead, burnishing the tips of their hair, and a slight chill is settling in. Winter is pulling out, sluggish and slow, and his sneakers are damp.

"Right." He takes the paper without once glancing at it, moving it to his pocket immediately. His shoulders are stiff, and he takes a heavy breath, finally turning to look at him through the corner of his eyes. "Nothing on my front. But there's someone . . . new. A girl, I think, but I can't be sure." He levels his gaze skywards, staring at the golden tinge on the low-hanging clouds. "Not a blonde, though."

He nods, and hunches forward, mouth drawn. "Right."

They stand, awkwardly, until the bus roars to a stop at the station, and an elderly woman steps off gingerly, feeling for her footing on the cracked sidewalk. "Your ride?"

He nods a goodbye, but otherwise doesn't make a move. It's Wally who finally turns and walks away, without ever once glancing back.

When he gets to the lot, a blaring honk sounds just behind him, and he jumps nearly a foot in the air, turning and being nudged forwards by the fender of a shiny black car. "God damn!" he starts, chest pounding, hand on the hood while he pants and attempts to regain his balance. He can see the smile through the windshield, mischievous and bright under the heart framed lenses, and he wonders for a moment whether the expression under another familiar pair of shades would be disappointed or proud that someone had managed to sneak up on him in a _Chevy_.

He throws a mocking scowl in the driver's direction, and throws his bag into the back, watching in a mixture of amazement and dismay as the force causes the car to bob. "That can_not _be good for me," he mutters, sliding into the passenger's seat.

"Can't be good for the car, either," she responds, eyeing him. He shrugs. "Car nearly disabled me; I think I'm entitled to throw a few punches back."

She doesn't acknowledge him, instead hitting the accelerator with primal glee, nearly whooping as they speed out of the lot and onto the street, curving around the back of the library and passing by the empty bus stop in a blur. He fumbles with the seatbelt, desperately trying to get himself secured before they hit the intersection and she reaches terminal speed.

If the car was less than fifty years old, he's pretty sure they'd have hit the sound barrier by now, and he's not particularly sure he wants to find out what that's like in a hundred-tonne metal box filled with highly flammable fuel. He yelps and the sound is small and comical and the driver laughs manically again.

It doesn't take nearly enough time for her to pull in front of the cafe, drifting into a parallel parking position. He's clutching at the edges of the seat, breathing hard, as he turns to her. "Ever considered driving for NASCAR?"

She shakes her head as she considers. "I don't think so. After a certain number of collisions and blowouts, you're little more than a liability."

His shoes catch on the edge of the sidewalk as he staggers out, slamming the door a little roughly behind him.

"You walk really gracefully, Float." The sun is high overhead now, and she ducks beneath the shade of the trees lining the street. "Like a giraffe on ice."

"I'd pay good money to see that," he starts, and she turns to him, one arm sweeping wide in the direction of the reflective cafe windows. "I take payment up front."

His scowl is half-hearted, dying completely away by the time they're entered the cozy coffee house, the smell of strong coffee and hot chocolate and warm cookies making him instantly start salivating.

"Patio, please," she says to the hostess, before turning to her companion with a no-nonsense look. "I don't need you drooling all over my notes."

"I would never!" His eyes grow, wide and innocent, but she's already following the young woman through the tall glass doors outside.

"One mocha latte and a triple hot chocolate please, extra whipped cream. And a turkey club wrap, if you've got them." She flashes a bright smile, all pearly whites, before pulling her notebooks out of her bag and immediately spreading them all over the table. He watches with a wry expression before turning back to the hostess. "Could I get some Belgian waffles to start with? And a menu please?"

"Sure."

Her heels click against the ground in the quiet afternoon air, and he sighs, breathing deeply. It's nice out now, the sun shining high and hot overhead. The sound of pen on paper is relentless, adding an uneven rhythm to the lazy buzzing in his ears. He glances over at her but she doesn't look up.

"Wally! Is that you?"

He turns, surprised, at the familiar voice, falling half off the warm metal chair. "Wendy! What are you doing here?"

"I work here, or don't you remember?" She's only teasing though, pen and pad held forgotten in one hand.

"No, sorry, it's just been a while. Holing up for midterms, you know how it is."

She laughs, and the sound is pleasant and light. "Yeah, I do, actually." She smiles down at the books scattered over the glass surface, giving his table partner a curious glance. "I don't know who this is, though. Care to introduce me, Mr. West?"

"Oh, sorry! Liza, this is Wendy; Wendy, Liza." He makes as if to show her off, (flicking her lightly on the forehead, first, to grab her attention). She rubs at her skin and scowls at him in irritation, before turning to their waitress with a much more amicable expression. "Pleasure to meet you!" She sticks out a firm hand, and Wendy, slightly bemused, shakes it. "Nice to meet you too." Then; "I love your hair."

She pauses, slightly, and Liza can almost see the fleeting look she shoots across the table before it flies straight back. "I've always thought lemon and ginger were a good combination."

An eyebrow raises in slight confusion, but she smiles anyway. "He came here often, then?"

"If that's a line, I don't think you're saying it right," he declares, butting obtrusively into the conversation and reminding them that 'he' is still here, thank you very much.

The brunette rolls her eyes and shakes her head. "Not really. He used to come here a lot, before, you know. University and life I guess, started catching up?"

Liza nods understandingly. "Oh, alright. I just figured he must practically have lived here if he knows all the waitresses by name."

He shakes his head, eyebrows drawn. "Hey, don't make me out to be some sceezeball here, okay? I just know Wendy. (And Rita, the owner). We used to be friends in high school."

"Why Wally, are you trying to say you don't want to be friends anymore?" She's smirking though, and he takes that as his cue to laugh an apology.

"You guys went to the same high school?" It's the first time she's looked up from her notes since they've sat down, her eyes sparkling with a devious hint of interest. It's not that he doesn't tell her about things, when she asks, but he isn't exactly forthcoming with the finer points of 'Life-before-Liza'. It's mundane, he says, and maybe that's how he remembers it, but no one goes through high school without gathering a few good stories to put under their belt.

"Sorry to disappoint, but no, we didn't." She shakes her head. "We just had some mutual friends, that's all."

Her smile hasn't dropped yet. "But you've got to have _some _stories about our man-about-town."

Wendy's shoulders lift in an apologetic shrug. "What can I say, we were boring teenagers. Nothing much really happened."

Liza's face falls, and she pouts, disappointed by their apparently shared views on the subject. "You guys are probably the worst people to play 'Never have I ever' with."

He jabs a finger at her. "There are easier ways to get drunk, if that's what you're trying to ask."

She snorts. "You'd know allll about that, wouldn't you _Float_."

He nods. "I am the undisputed master, and I'm glad that you recognize that."

"You're a terrible drunk, Wally," Wendy cuts in. "Are you going to order anything? Or have your 'usuals' changed?"

"Usuals, please!" She nods, grabbing a laminated card from the front pocket of her apron and walking away. Liza can barely read the name printed in black over the glare on the plastic.

"God, you _were_ here often, weren't you?" She drops a little wink, her voice low and conspiratorial. "Though it wasn't just for the food, was it?"

She starts it, and soon they're both laughing, artificial and suddenly unsure. They peter out, together, until she's forced to turn her attention back to studying to prevent the creeping awkwardness from slowly stealing in on them. It's too late of course, but it doesn't matter. They're both very good at pretending.

The soft _clink!_ of the glasses as they're set on the table draws their attention, for a moment. Her pen stills in her hands, and she sets it cautiously on the table beside her books. He follows the movement, and realizes that it's more than the pen she's set aside. She's pushing down a wall, or two, or maybe only cracking open a window, but he can see the tense hesitation as her eyes delve into the bottom of her latte.

"Did you –?" The words are whispered though, and it's an out she's preparing. The question dies in her throat, and he lets her pretend that she'd never said anything at all. The steam from the latte curls around her hair and he watches it, waiting.

"Wendy seems nice," she tries again, and her smile is large and genuine. She picks up the pen and the brief moment is over, her eyes light and protected behind the volume of work spread around her. "We should hang out here more often."

He doesn't respond, staring at the whorls of whipped cream and chocolate shavings and remembering, suddenly, the last time he'd been here. It's such a distant memory, now, and he wonders at how little things have changed, around here. He downs the cup before the waffles arrive.

There's a steady chink of silverware as he plows through the stack. It falters, though, slowing steadily. She pushes aside a thick curtain of light hair and looks up.

"What's the matter?" Her eyes are wide with concern, the notebooks forgotten on the table. He taps the fork restlessly against the edge of the blue-trimmed porcelain, and watches the cars as they blur by in bright, shaky lights. The waffles sit, only half eaten, on the plate.

"I remember these waffles tasting better."

* * *

The room is dark, still, even for so late in the morning, but he doesn't bother opening the curtains to let in some light. In the dark he can foster his thoughts, drawing them out like distorted images on the surface of his ceiling and scrutinizing them, analyzing them.

Liza's down at the library again, he thinks. Probably still studying for her criminal justice something-or-other class. Fingers – still strong despite the waning training regime – brush against his lips as he turns memories over in his mind, and speculates.

She kissed him, yesterday.

He closes his eyes, even though there really isn't much difference, and remembers the way her hair had hung, loose, around her shoulders, and her smile had lit up the evening, and her eyes had shone. They'd been at another stupid University party – the type where everyone is pretentious and self-conscious and trying their best to be the mature adults they think they're supposed to become. She'd been assailed, cornered, in the most literal sense, on one side of the room, two men in well-cut blazers and ugly glasses attempting to engage her in a conversation about the ephemeral nature of bullshit.

He could see her, searching frantically for some means of escape, and had walked over, ever the gallant knight, to help her out of her unfortunate situation. The classical jazz had been mellowing him out the entire evening, and even though he found most of the conversation grating, he'd been meeting some interesting people, his muscles growing lax and his grip on the wine glass slowly slipping, ever so slightly.

He'd smiled, wide and loose, as he'd reached her, cutting through the pair of freshman with a slightly drunken swagger in his step (something she was sure to have noticed, because he saw the way her eyes had narrowed, lashes thickening attractively as they grew closer together). "Excuse me," an irate voice got out from his right, and he'd turned, a little slow, and frowned. "I'm sorry," he'd started, apologetically. "Was this lovely lady bothering you two gentlemen? It looked like you were in the middle of a very insightful conversation."

She'd frowned up at him, petulant and relieved at once. "Don't always assume that things are my fault! How do you know they weren't petitioning me for something?"

He'd laughed. "I think I know you better than that."

"Well, what if they were hitting on me? What then?" He could almost tangibly feel them tensing beside him, and he smiled, playing along. "Then I'd have to fight them for your honour," he'd replied. He could feel the one on the left drawing himself up stiffly, and he turned, suddenly just a little bit quicker, and looked him coolly in the eye, smile never leaving. "Is that what it's come to gentlemen?" But they'd already excused themselves, trapping another pair of women into a cyclic conversation.

Well, it's not like he was really a violent man to start with.

She'd laughed with him, and the lazy mood had returned; all languid movements and slow jazz melodies. "You're awfully eloquent when you've had a drop to drink, Mr. West."

"Why of course, darling," he'd lifted his wine glass in some imaginary toast. "How else would I begin to conduct myself in the gentlemen's clubs?"

"Well, you saved me, anyway, so I will go get you a slice of that gorgeous looking cheesecake they're bringing out over there."

An eyebrow raised. "It would be counterproductive if that endeavour ends with you needing my help, again. Not that I could ever refuse the request of a damsel in distress."

She'd reached up then, and given him a quick peck on the lips. It hadn't been a lingering moment, or particularly tender, but she'd been gentle and sweet and he'd been fleetingly rendered speechless. She reacted, though, as though she'd given him nothing but a slight hug or a squeeze – a thank you.

"It's not like I'll let anyone else corner me again. Besides, I can take care of myself."

She'd rolled her eyes, and twisted on a spotless black heel, marching purposefully towards the dessert table.

He'd had to sit down, in the armchair at the edge of the room, and he'd rested his chin on his fist, propped on the armrest. He could have taken it in stride, probably, except that as she'd rolled her eyes, in the slightly tipsy, dim light, he'd sworn for a moment that they had spun grey.

His lids flutter open, again, and he stares at the picture she'd propped up on his bedside table, a little before they'd begun to study for midterms together. Blonde and beautiful and young – so carefree and energetic and fun and kind and somehow _different_. Not the same.

He knows it's not fair of him, to compare them. They don't even really look all that alike – it's just that strange similarity in their locks that leaves him unable to stop. She's there, still, a softly blurring picture superimposed on this new, strange, almost _normal _world that he's thrust himself into. He curls a fist into his blanket and lets out a breath.

He wonders, sometimes, if it's the idea of her that he's chasing. If he's trying to recreate the girl with the confidence and wit and unbearably selfish selflessness. He keeps half an eye out for her, all the time, and sometimes he whips his head too fast to catch that disappearing flash of gold, causing a crick in his neck and putting him in serious danger of developing whiplash.

But she's just some unmentionable presence, lingering in the corners of his mind, like the poster on his door that he never looks at, or the left drawer, second from the bottom, that is never opened. He's debated, sometimes, clearing out the remnants of painful memories and sad stories that didn't really have an ending. But he won't, and he knows that. It's like his own personal souvenir room for something far more private and precious, and he can't decide if he's holding trophies or a cross.

The clock buzzes when the hour changes, but his eyes are closed and his breathing is even and he doesn't stir from where he's thrown himself over the bed. He's just so tired.

When the knocking comes, loud and insistent against the brittle wood of his door, he jerks suddenly awake, gazing blearily into the blackness of late evening and mumbling an incoherent response to whoever's woken him. Words skim the surface of his thoughts, dredged up from some half-remembered dream, and his fingers close involuntarily around phantom warmth.

* * *

"Where are you going, Float?" A feminine hand catches his arm, and lips brush softly against his when he turns around.

"Liza! God, where were you, you said the cinema at 8!"

She tsks, shaking her head in mock disappointment. "That's nowhere near what I said. I said Cinema 8 at 9. Although I did sort of have the feeling you hung up before I'd finished talking." The glare she levels at him makes him flinch, uncomfortably.

"My battery was dying! It's charging in the car, okay?"

She stalks off, hair swinging behind her. The spring is slowly blooming, and he can see her smile when a short flower brushes against her leg. "You're buying the popcorn!"

"You have to help me carry everything!"

She's laughing when he catches up, and the sound chimes in the empty lot. "You're going to have to buy an extra ticket just so you have somewhere to put all that food!"

"I am a master at balancing movie snacks," he starts. "Through years of practice –"

"And hard, intensive training –"

"No, Liza, I don't think you appreciate the extent of what I did for this. For us."

"You didn't do it for _us, _Wally."

He snorts. "Not you and me. Me and my _snacks_."

She laughs as he swings into step beside her, enjoying the way they've settled into this friendship. It's not entirely platonic, they know, but they've found a groove that they're comfortable in, and they can stay here for a while. She reaches a hand up to muss his hair, standing on the tips of her toes and scuffing the toes of her canvas shoes against the ground.

"Better watch yourself, Float, or you'll be sinking your steps in the sidewalk in no time."

"Please. I've got a lightning quick metabolism," he smirks, wallet already out as the cashier begins to tally up the movie snacks. They've been every week, recently, to alleviate the burning in their heads caused by all their intensive studying.

Her fingers tap lightly on the counter, and she stares at the candy behind the display case; polished and immobile. She wonders, vaguely, how long they've been sitting there, warming under the fluorescent lights. Patiently sitting and gathering dust.

"Hrmmmf." She turns, arms outstretched at the signal word for 'Please help me carry this unnecessary amount of food.' She can't see over the fluffy white peaks of popcorn, letting him guide her in a strange, jostling motion into the theatre.

The area is dark and empty – she doesn't know, exactly, how old the theatre actually is, but the poor dinosaur is definitely on its last legs. They debate on whether or not they're going to sit together or take up whole sections, but the end vote is decided by Wally's need to be in constant proximity to all the food at all times.

She settles in with a score of candy bars strewn across her lap, and he arranges the popcorn around himself; a veritable fortress of white, buttery heaven. He's tearing into the first couple of chocolate bars already, the paper crinkling and loud in the blank silence of 'serious' pre-movie trivia.

"You've got chocolate on your mouth."

He barely turns, his pupils focused reverently on the movie snack counter deals parading across the screen. She laughs and licks it off and settles back down, the seat reclining comfortably beneath her. Every sentence spoken in the theatre is punctuated by the crunching of movie food, like the unnecessary bass track to a classical music remix.

* * *

She tastes like chocolate and summer.

It's a strange thing to think – that someone can taste like a season. He might have thought it nonsensical (he did, after all, have the largest comprehensive knowledge of tastes of anyone in likely the history of ever), but he recalls in the back of his mind a girl who tastes like autumn, and he thinks he's much more equipped to deal with these foreign flavours.

It's taken quite a number of light, friendly kisses to pin it down. He'd been considering perhaps chai, or butter cookies maybe, mixed in with the cool, waxy feel of buttered lip balm. He'd spent far too much time scouring his internal reference library, attempting to come up with the one, correct classification. And wondering, afterwards, why figuring it out was so damn important.

* * *

Screams echo in the empty parking lot as the steady thunderous beating of soles slap against the pavement. The sounds are whipped into the sky, the easy breeze a welcome change from the stagnant classroom air.

"Finally! We're finally free!"

He drops to his knees, forehead pressed against the pavement, prostrating himself before the venerable exam gods. She offers a generous kick to his backside, using her previous momentum to carry an unfortunate amount of force into the action. He's propelled a good foot forward, hands scraping against the gravel.

"God damn it, Liza, I'm bleeding!" She doesn't flinch when the bloodied hand is pressed into her face, bits of grit and flesh mangled together. A hand ruffles his hair affectionately, honestly managing to reinstate some semblance of order after his harried exam time ministrations. "Don't cry, please, you'll kill my buzz." She motions behind her with a brief jerk of her head. "Jenny and Harold are coming too, so you better be living it up tonight. I'm not going to be the person who brought the killjoy to the party."

"You know the party don't start till I walk in," he starts, grin already growing. She smiles, and flicks him on the nose. "You started something last time, for sure, but fights really don't count."

He raises his hands. "That's how you know it's a party!"

"You're not allowed to start anymore fights," a clipped tone interjects, affable with elation and relief and perhaps an undercurrent of slight jocularity.

He spins, grabbing a hand and bowing low over it. "As my lady has decreed it, so shall it be."

Another voice sounds, close by on his left. "Man, I have stats coming out of my _ass_. Tonight we are getting completely **trashed**. I don't want to remember a single case precedent six hours ago tomorrow." Harold stretches, arms high, fingers reaching for the sky. "Party tonight?"

Wally side-steps the kick Harold aims at the back of his knee.

"Is there any better way to celebrate?" Liza sing-songs, jumping lightly on the balls of her feet.

"Finally! We're casting off the cold, hard shades of sobriety!" Harold's words are slightly slurred with exhaustion and anticipation. They're all clumsy in their elation, and Wally accidently slaps him across the face when they run together for a high-five.

"Oh, damn. Sorry," he tries, fingers fumbling for tissues for a bloody nose.

"Holy crap, West, the hell is with those meat tenderizers at the end of your arm?"

"You're not even bruising." He turns to his girlfriend, the shattered look of betrayal on his face. "Blood. There is blood. I'm bleeding!"

Jenny scoffs. "You got a nosebleed in the middle of your English Lit. exam because the room was too hot."

"I am a DELICATE man."

"Right." The syllable is emphasized by a roll of the eyes. "While you boys sort out your little manly bonding problem, Jenny and I have to go get some ridiculous, slutty dresses. We'll see you in a couple of hours."

"Hours?" Wally spins, hair falling in his eyes as all concern for Harold is pushed to the backburner. Jenny hands him a tissue. "How long does it take? You don't take hours!"

"Well not for you. But Jenny and Harold are coming, so I have to pretty myself up."

He pouts. "What, I don't rate that much effort?"

"**Hours**, Wally. Is anything worth that wait on a regular basis?" She grins, confident in her victory, before spinning and stalking away. "Later boys. Try to do something about –" she turns and eyes them critically, gesturing in their general direction. "That situation."

"I think you're gorgeous too, thanks," he calls back.

They watch the retreating forms of the girls as the silence descends between them.

"We lucked out, didn't we?"

The starchy collar of his shirt scratches the skin beneath his bright red hair as he turns. "What?"

"Our girlfriends, I mean." Neat, dark brown hair nods in the direction in which their friends had disappeared.

"We're not dating, man."

He rolls his eyes. "Just because you turned me down months ago, don't think I've given up. But I'm talking about Liza."

"Moron." He shakes his head, shoes kicking against the ground.

"So you haven't even thought about it?"

Wally ducks away, averting his face from a sceptical gaze. "Liza and I are friends, dude."

"She kisses you like every time she sees you." Harold spins on his heel, walking alongside him. "Are you saying you'd say no?"

"What is with all these questions?" His voice is tired, but without hostility. "Did Jenny or Liza or someone put you up to this?"

He shrugs. "Even I get curious sometimes."

* * *

It's a nightmare of flashing lights and exposed skin, the smell of alcohol hanging in a cloud of fruity drinks and perfume. It's been ages since he's been to any sort of scene this wild, and he crests the waves of his intoxication with a strange, easy grace. He's gotten much better, as of late, at getting drunk.

A hand snakes its way against his side, skin glittery in the dark. He turns, expecting a petite blonde college student, and finds himself trapped in a dance with a lanky brunette. "Pleased to meet you, handsome. Want to be my dance partner, tonight?"

The words are oddly pretty, coiling through the atmosphere, until he can't distinguish it from the scope of the experience. His smile is effortless and genial, a positive answer ready to slide between bright white teeth.

"Sorry sugar." His words are snatched away by someone else's interference. The voice is low and slightly rough, an odd edge of amusement peering out between the syllables. "This man's been promised to me, for tonight."

He turns, eyes immediately drawn to the sparkly embellishments on a low blue bustier, the refraction of the gems and the strobe lights flashing iridescent colour on the milky white skin just above it. "Oh, I was wondering where you went."

She offers a delicate hand, short lace glove arched to accept a kiss. "You promised that I'd be your dance partner tonight, didn't you?" He complies, bowing to brush his lips against the slightly rough fabric. "Actually, I think I promised you whatever you liked, tonight."

Her eyes grow, the significance of which he can't fully appreciate in his current state. He settles a loose arm around her waist, and she clasps a hand over his, guiding him to their booth table in the corner. He can just faintly hear the sound of her pumps tapping across the floor in a steady rhythm, and he focuses in on the sound, slowing his own beats to match it.

"I found him!" The words are declared to gracious but unenthusiastic applause, and she pushes him into the booth, wedging him in between herself and Jenny. Her friend's long black hair falls messy and thick onto the table, her head only barely prevented from falling forwards by her boyfriend's protective shoulder. "Alright, show of hands, who is stroke-inducing-ly drunk?"

"I can't even remember if alcohol has anything to do with strokes. Jenny? Does it?"

She barely shifts, mumbling an incoherent response into the dark fabric of Harold's shirt.

"I count Jenny and Harold, then. How are you doing, Mr. West?" Her eyes are curious but not yet concerned, and he waves an airy hand above his head. "I think I'll be okay. Minus the hangover headache in the morning, I mean."

"Alright, then. I think we're done here for tonight – can you help me with Harold and Jenny? We need to get them into a cab and back into at least one of their dorm rooms." He stretches, arms limber, and makes to get out of the booth. "I'll grab Harold, you grab Jenny. We can probably shepherd them out the back door. Can you call us a cab?"

Her phone is already affixed to her ear, the telltale holographic scales of justice emblem shining on the back. "We'll have to go with them though, there's no way they'll make it in on their own."

"Harold's res. is closest," he nods, thoughts still swimming in viscous disharmony. He floats along the stream, chasing the thought to the end. "I have his key with me, we can just drop them off there."

She's already helping Jenny slowly out, her feet sluggish and her movements slow. Heels drag slightly along the floor as she staggers against her support, and they make their way in stilting steps to the back. Harold watches for a moment, before following of his own accord.

"Are you okay? I saw you drink a lot." He nods, allowing him to place a kind hand on his shoulder anyway. "I'm still good for a few more drinks, but Jenny's pretty much finished. I'll have to stay up with her for a little while, until she blows whatever she's ingested."

"She might be less of a lightweight than you think," he tries, attempting to soothe away his friend's exhaustion.

"She's gotten drunk on a bottle of beer before, she'll never be able to handle this. I just have to make sure she doesn't throw up in her sleep and then choke on it."

He smiles, freckles coloured in ghastly palettes under the changing lights. "You're a good boyfriend, man. I'm kind of jealous."

"You'll never measure up my friend, it's my guarantee. 'Better than the rest', you know."

He shakes his head. "Man, I am seriously reconsidering dating you right now. Come on, Harold, marry me. I'll make you happier than Jenny ever will!"

He scoffs. "Shut up. You had your chance." His hands pat against his pockets, and he turns stiffly against Wally's chest. "Do you have my keys? I think I can take us back on my own."

"I don't know, dude, you downed a lot of alcohol."

"I've done keg stands before, I think I can handle this."

He shakes his head. "That's not actually making me any less nervous. I don't exactly expect keg standees to make it home on their own. And the fact that you think that's a qualifier pretty much guarantees that Liza and I will be sending you guys back." He stops his barely uttered protest. "Don't worry too much about it – we'll just share the cab, alright?"

"You guys are good friends. I might take you up on that engagement offer after all, fiancée."

"Excellent. But be gentle when you break it to Jenny."

He laughs.

The world is deafeningly quiet outside the party, and they stand in a narrow alleyway just before the wider street. The silence and the cooler air sober them, and Jenny manages to force herself into more of an upright position. She braces a hand against Liza's arm, swaying slightly in the dark. "I am so sorry, Liza. I must be such a mess." She looks genuinely apologetic when she turns slightly towards the party. "I didn't mean to make you cut the celebration short."

"Don't be ridiculous! The goal was to have fun, and it looks like you got as much as you could out of that! It was getting kind of suffocating in there anyway." She starts towards the street, heels picking their way carefully around the garbage strewn debris. "I'll keep a lookout for the cab, and you guys head over when you feel up to it."

"No, don't worry about that." Harold sweeps Jenny off her feet in two short strides, arms securely steadying the hem of her dress. "We'll wait with you."

"I can walk on my own," she protests, her argument made less convincing by the arms twining themselves around his neck.

"Just sleep, gorgeous, we're all going home now anyway. And I really don't want you to trip on something and kill yourself – those skyscrapers on your feet could literally kill you."

"I have not heard a single case of heels causing accidental death."

"So you're saying it's all done on purpose?"

Wally pushes him gently forward, a hand just below his shoulder blades to help propel him. "I don't know what her memory retention is like right now, so I wouldn't worry too much about it." He points with one hand to the entrance of the alley, the crumbling brick buildings on either side rising so high above them that they're nearly bent together in a tall, sharp arch. "The cab is here."

It takes a little bit of careful manoeuvring to get Harold and Jenny into the car. Liza sits in the front, with the driver, and Wally seats himself on the other side of Jenny, to better help her groggy boyfriend prevent any nasty accidents. The street lights are flickering ornaments against the tinted glass of the windows and he leans against them, the shining orbs blending into a strange stream of hanging lights, strung up against the sky. The night is warm but the streets are nearly empty, growing ever more unpopulated the closer they get to the University residence. It's as though they're the only people in the world.

The car glides to a stop outside the tall grey brick building, and they shuffle the unconscious girl out, Wally carrying her while Harold makes his stumbling way into the building. The corridors are quiet and empty, and to be perfectly honest he isn't sure whether or not they're breaking one or ten of the dorm's rules. Their clothes shine in the darkness in stark contrast to the drab beige walls and the unpatterned carpet underfoot.

"Just lie her on the bed, for now. I'm going to clean up a little bit." Wally pauses on the threshold, the room dark and cluttered, and attempts to make his way through the landmines on the floor. He pulls out the desk chair, but a tanned hand stops his. "You can go back – I know Liza's got the cab waiting, and Jenny will be fine for a little while longer."

"Are you sure? You kind of freaked me out a little bit when you started talking about the possibility of her choking to death on her own vomit."

"I'll watch her. You guys should head home or – hell you can head back out if you want, I think you guys are still okay for tonight."

He shakes his head, red hair messy and falling into his eyes. "I'm pretty sure we're done. We'll catch you later. Remember, we're going to the burger joint on Sunday."

"Provided we can sober up enough by tomorrow evening, we'll be there."

He stretches as he passes him, grin growing. "That's nice. You think you have a choice."

He pussyfoots along the hallway, doing his best not to disturb the other residents, and slips through the glass door at the front. The cool air makes such a big difference, he's almost reluctant to step back into the taxi. He stills, slightly, and makes a meandering path back to the vehicle, Liza watching him quizzically. "Are you still good?"

He nods, sliding into the back and rolling down the windows. "Yeah, I'm fine. Where are we headed next?"

"Oh, Mr. West! You're still up for another party?" Her eyes shine mischievously, and his head snaps in her direction, suddenly apprehensive. "That's a joke, right?"

"Maybe. You'll figure it out when we get there."

He turns cautiously to the window, eyes straining for any signs of revelry, but the streets remain dark and empty. He doesn't realize how inebriated he really must be at this point, until he sees his front door without recognizing the street. He groans, paying the taxi driver and watching the taillights disappear around the corner, floating through the heavy dark, before leaving them, standing under a series of dim, flickering streetlights. He offers her his arm. "Ready for another exciting social event, my lady?"

She smirks. "As always, my lord."

They step into the entrance hall, doing their best not to make any noise. The lights are off and the silence hangs, heavy and familiar, in their wake. He herds her into the kitchen, and gallantly pulls out a chair for her, tucking her securely beneath the table. "Can I get you anything? Water? Bread? Anything else, edible or not?"

"Two shot glasses, please."

He snorts, carrying the tiny glasses to the table. "I hate to break this to you, but my liquor cabinet isn't exactly well-stocked."

"I figured as much." She rolls her eyes, digging into her purse for a moment before extracting a tall bottle of tequila. "So I came prepared."

He stares at the bottle for a moment. "You brought alcohol to a club?"

"For a little pre-party buzz, but we never got that far. So instead, the two of us are going to finish this bottle in your kitchen at one in the morning, after an exhausting day of babysitting our friends."

"I don't know if I like the sound of this." He watches as she pours smoothly into each glass, frown deepening.

"Don't worry, we won't wake up your parents."

"No kidding – they're away for the weekend. I saw them off this afternoon."

She shoots him a derisive look. "Are you serious? Then why were we tip-toeing in the hallway?"

He shrugs. "I forgot. I'm smashed, okay?"

"Can you handle any more alcohol?" Her brows are drawn together in neat lines, concern visible in her features. "I really don't want to kill you with alcohol poisoning."

He waves a hand. "It's fine. I can handle a lot more. Besides, I promised you whatever you wanted tonight."

"That's true, but I'd rather not have it on my conscience." She slides his glass towards him, the small container flying over the nicks in the wood. "We're going to play a game."

He raises an eyebrow. "I have to warn you right now, I'm not very good at drinking games."

"Never have I ever," she starts, fingers curling determinedly around her glass. "had a crush on a superhero."

"That is such bullshit. I know for a fact you have a thing for Nightwing." He tips his drink towards her, unwilling to concede the first loss.

"Yeah," she smiles, and downs the glass. "Are you saying you haven't?"

"For Nightwing?" He stops, tapping the glass thoughtfully against his chin. He downs it in one sip. "Is it my turn now?"

She raises an eyebrow. "You aren't going to elaborate on your little super crush?"

"Never have I ever," he begins, talking over the tail-end of her question, "cheated on a test."

"Damn." The liquid burns a little bit going down, she's taking it so fast. She grabs a tissue from the counter and wipes daintily at her lips, the lipstick smudging slightly. "Never have I ever gone skinny-dipping."

He curses, and they both down their glasses. "That, at least, deserves a story."

"It's not like it's a big deal. Besides, you're not telling me any of yours, are you?" He rolls his eyes, and sets the glass on the table, topping them up. "I didn't realize story-telling was one of the rules of the game."

She shrugs, shoulders brushing against long blonde hair. "It's not. It just makes the game more interesting."

"Never have I ever broken into the faculty lounge." She's surprised when they both top up their glasses again. "Really, Float? You're more adventurous than I realized."

He rolls his eyes, and gestures for her to take her turn. "Never have I ever discretely 'borrowed' someone else's car."

She's amused by his grimace as he downs the glass. "Oh, Mr. West, you are a man of many talents, aren't you?"

"Never have I ever melted a cast iron pot."

"Now you're just being vindictive."

The bottle is almost finished by the time the kitchen clock reads two in the morning. He'd taken pity on her, closer to the end, and started diluting her glasses with a little bit of water. He might have done it for himself, too, but he wasn't quite ready to stop living in this state of mind. His head rests on the table and he watches her, slumped over her glass as she contemplates her next question. The world is shifting and hazy, and he's only just beginning to think they should really stop playing this game.

"Never have I ever pretended I wasn't in love with someone."

His hand slides over to his drink, pushing it as close as he can before he sits up. His throat is burning and his eyes are almost watery. When he slams his glass back on the table, the surface jumps and the tequila bottle is thrown onto the floor, the shards sharp and the sparse liquid seeping across the tile.

He slouches out of his seat, turning to the kitchen counter for a cloth. Liza is already on the floor, picking up the shards of glass. "Oh." It's more a statement than an actual exclamation of pain, despite the burning sensation he's sure the alcohol is causing. He lifts her finger to his mouth, and kisses the blood away. "I'll get the rest of it."

She doesn't respond, staring instead, the bright colours of her eyes shifting as she traces the outlines of his face. She places a hand gently on his cheek, and turns him towards her. And kisses him.

It's the first time he ever feels like she's kissed him and meant it as a _kiss_; as something other than a greeting or an apology or a physical thank you. The shards scatter from between his fingers, and the sharp jagged edge of one cuts his palm. Pain and twisted pleasure all at once. He wonders, vaguely, why his hands are at odds with themselves, alternately trying to push her away and drag her closer. His fingers run through her long, golden hair instead, and the feeling is comforting, familiar. Safe.

They don't bother with the tequila on the floor anymore, Wally hoisting her against the counter and Liza sliding him against the wall. They do a strange dance out of the kitchen, fingers fumbling for the light switch and banging against the doorframe. It's a miracle they make it up the stairs, the redhead half-speeding and the blonde turned breathless and disoriented. Their breaths and their sounds are loud in the empty house, drowning in the darkness of his room and suddenly the world stops spinning.

He wakes up in the afternoon, head pounding and the smell of freshly roasted coffee floating down the hall towards him. It takes him a moment to reorient himself, staring at the piles of clothing strewn all over the room, at the desk drawers pulled and discarded in various corners. He can't quite remember why everything is such a mess – what would have possessed him at all to start tearing apart his furniture like that, but he can't focus and his thoughts wander along a meandering path, staggering and going nowhere.

He walks downstairs, the hall cool despite the afternoon heat, and leans against the railing, head poking over the landing to see into the living room. The soft sounds of network television drift towards him, the familiar canned laughter and overly dramatic acting a strangely comforting noise. The stairs creak as he staggers to the kitchen scratching at the edges of his boxer shorts, hands stopped at the bare skin just above his waistband.

"Morning." The word makes him freeze, and he stares cautiously into the kitchen, wary of being caught, hung over, by his rather conservative parents. He's too groggy to realize the voice is too light, and young, to be anyone really capable of getting him into trouble. He pokes a head carefully into the room.

"Glad you could join me, Sleeping Beauty." Her smile is genuine but tired, and she shuffles out with a white mug of what smells like very strong coffee, headed towards the living room. It takes him a moment to realize that she's wearing one of his old _Kid Flash_ memorabilia t-shirts. The one he'd worn to sleep when he'd been younger. It hangs off her, baggy and only barely concealing the pink lace slip of her underwear.

"G'Morning," he mumbles, grabbing the entire pot of coffee and popping some bread in the toaster. He opens an overhead cabinet, rifling through it for some Advil. The alcohol's after-effects will run through him in another hour or so, but he has a feeling that his friend could really use some.

She doesn't look up when he walks in, the coffee pot in one hand and a stack of toast and some Advil in the other. Legs push lazily against the floor, and she shifts over, making room for him on the couch without taking her eyes off the program. Her face is drawn, and she stretches, limbs stiff.

"Take these," he whispers, handing over two small red pills and a piece of toast. She doesn't even glance at them as she pops the medication in her mouth, downing it with a strong wash of coffee. "We've got the burger thing tonight with Harold and Jenny."

She grunts.

He stretches, mind only half awake. "Hey, what happened in my room last night? The place is a mess."

She finally turns to him, eyes half-lidded, and stares incredulously. "Do I look like I know? I just woke up in my underwear and your shirt, and I can barely remember my name. There's no way I'm making it to that thing we have tonight."

He groans, an arm flung over his eyes. "That's what I thought. Damn, I shouldn't have given Harold such a hard time about it last night, he's going to rub it in my face the next time I see him."

"I doubt he's conscious yet," she mutters, and turns her disjointed attention back to the television screen.

He leans forwards, head near his knees. "I need a shower."

"Me too." She groans and lets her head fall to the back of the couch, hair caught beneath her shoulders. "And clean clothes. I could really use some clean clothes. My dress from last night still smells like alcohol and sweaty dancers. I'm going to need to have it dry-cleaned."

He pitches forwards, trying to propel himself into a standing position. Half the coffee has already been drunk. "I'm going to take a shower first, and then I'll root through my stuff and see if I've got anything wearable for you."

She tugs at the hem of her shirt. "Why can't I just wear this? It's cute."

"That is a _limited _edition first printing of the _Kid Flash _introduction series shirt. You can wear anything else that is not worth a million points to the valued collector."

"A million points?"

"Well, a million and three hundred thousand, but I'm rounding."

She lifts a hand in a gesture of surrender, even as she lifts the mug to her lips. "Alright, fine. I wouldn't want to interfere with your oddly obsessive super crush."

"I do not have a super crush on Kid Flash, no matter how dashing and handsome he is."

"It's alright, Float, you can admit it. I'm not in any position to judge right now, after all."

He starts to make a retort but she's already lost interest, turning to the plate of toast and digging into the pieces at the top. He makes his way up the stairs instead, bumping once or twice into the railing before stumbling into his small bathroom. The steam from the showerhead helps clear his mind, and he walks more steadily out of it, grabbing a clean pair of boxers from one of the drawers on the ground and trying to maneuver his way towards the closet for a pair of pants or at the very least, a shirt.

"You're not going to find me anything wearable in there."

He turns, startled, to the slight girl leaning against his doorframe. "Could you please stop sneaking up on me? How is it even possible to be so quiet?"

"Loud noises make me want to vomit."

He shuffles over, kicking pieces of clothing out of the way as he goes. "The bathroom's on the right – you can just get started and I'll bring you whatever I can find." She casts an appraising look at the state of his room but doesn't argue.

He waits until he can hear the pipes pumping warm water before he turns to the task at hand. There are shirts thrown on his dresser, and a pair of shiny blue heels beneath his bed. He turns to the closet, rifling through it for a clean, _blank _shirt and a pair of velocity running shorts. He isn't entirely sure that they'll fit, but she can wear the shirt as a sort of dress if need be (a remnant from one of his XXL 'gangster' phases). He carries them out into the hallway, just able to pick her bra out from the mess of clothing on the floor, and lays them on the banister across the hall.

He's ready to turn back in, to make sense of the rest of his mess, when he hears the shrill sound of the phone, the ring echoing in the house and making him cringe. He runs to the nearest one, desperate to stop the sound, and picks it up without considering who might be on the other end. His words are still slightly slurred and his voice groggy. "Hello?"

"God damn it Wally, are you hung over? I've already called twice today."

"Can you keep your voice down, just a little bit please?"

He can almost hear the exasperation on the other end. "Are you serious? I swear to God, you better listen up because I am not calling you again."

"Look, I don't have anything else for you, okay? Did the Lithuanian tail run cold? Or did you find him?" His voice is biting and impatient.

There's silence for a moment, the static on the line tense. "No," he starts, calmer now. "I didn't find who I was looking for."

He rubs a hand over his face, immediately regretting his initial outburst of frustration. "I'm sorry man. I didn't mean to say it like that. I know it's really important to you."

"I didn't find who _I _was looking for. But I have some news for _you._" There's a pause as he clears his throat, and Wally's heart catches up before his brain, kicking into overdrive.

"You found her? Roy, where is she?"

"I'm sorry man," he starts, and his excitement and anticipation nosedive, sinking to the soles of his feet. "She's dead."

He almost laughs. "That's impossible. There's no way they can take her."

The melancholy regret seeps through from wherever the other man is standing, travelling through the phone lines and paralyzing him where he stands. "I saw her, Wally. I could recognize her. It was Artemis."

"But did you say anything? Did you actually talk to her? How did you _know _it was her?"

His words are solemn and sad. "She wasn't in any position to answer any of my questions." A pause. "Look, are you okay? Do you need me to come over, or. Something?"

The words are awkward and stilted, but Wally can still almost appreciate the effort. "No. Don't worry about it. I just need some time."

"Don't do anything rash, okay? I'm still here if you need me."

He shakes his head, shoulders slumped and hands braced against the table. "Thanks, but you have your own things to deal with. Good luck, okay Roy? And don't do anything stupid."

"More stupid than chasing the Shadows and breaking into their hideouts?"

He almost laughs. "Yeah."

He stands for a moment, breaths shallow, phone clenched in his hands. He puts it down when he hears the plastic begin to crack, and backs away, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. The room swims around him, but he can't move. He doesn't even notice the sound of the bathroom door cracking open.

It's not until a muffled _Bang! _and a curse emanate from his room does he turn, walking towards the sound, the world inside his house suddenly the only real thing he can understand. His attention turns, focused with nearly laser-like precision on the girl slouched on the floor, rubbing a bruise on her leg with one hand, and gathering clothing and garbage with the other. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." She scowls at the ground, her belt from last night cinched around his shirt, the hem brushing halfway down her thighs. The shorts lie on his counter. "I was just trying to grab my stuff, and pick up some of the trash. I think I walked into a drawer or something. God, it looks like a tornado hit this place."

He frowns down at the mess. "Yeah. Don't worry too much about cleaning it up, I can handle it."

"But I must have helped! There's no way someone can make such a mess on their own." She holds up a hand as he starts to protest. "Look, at least just let me sort it into . . . into manageable piles or something. Or I will lose it."

"It's not even your room!" He nearly throws his arms up in exasperation, but her eyes are narrowing in a dangerous way, and he backs up a step, mumbling a "Fine. Whatever. Thanks."

She looks infuriatingly pleased with herself.

He drops to his knees, crawling around on the floor and helping her pick up random items. He grabs a drawer and she follows his lead, slotting them into random spots. "God, Wally, you're disgusting! Do you keep garbage in your drawers or something?"

"What? No! What are you talking about?" He turns, glancing, confused, in her direction. A white, plastic bag dangles from her hands.

"You have a garbage can in the corner of your room, and you keep your trash in your desk?" She wrinkles her nose. "I'm taking these out."

It takes him a moment to appreciate what she's holding, and his breaths stagger, coming in short bursts. "No, just leave it. I can get to those."

Her eyes wrinkle in confusion. "What? It's not really a problem, I can just get it for you."

"No, it's fine, I can get it." A hand reaches out, ready to take them from her grasp. "Why are you being so weird about this? I can do it for you!" She tugs back, and he doesn't release the plastic in time, the bag splitting along the bottom seam and sending the contents spilling over the floor, like unexpected treasure.

He averts his eyes. "Could you please leave for a minute?"

She stops, her extraction of the arrow and lightning pendants halted halfway. "Sorry?"

"Could you please just get out for a second?" His words are strangled, wrenched from a slowly closing throat and frustrating him.

"Wally, I'm sorry, I didn't want to make a mess. Look, I'll help you pick it up, okay?" Her hand is inches from a framed silver photograph, lying face down on his carpet, fingers outstretched.

"I think you should leave."

Her breath almost stops in her throat. "What?"

"Look, I'll call you a taxi, okay? Just, get your stuff."

"Are you kicking me out?" Her words are almost incredulous, eyes wide and sweet and hurt. Confusion plays with the edges of her lips. He doesn't respond, sweeping the objects onto the sheet of white plastic, almost reverently, and wrapping them up like a shroud.

He pulls out the drawer on the far left, second from the bottom, filled to bursting with hastily placed boxer shorts and socks, and replaces it with another one, deep and empty. The package in his arms is tucked at the very back. She stands abruptly, wiping discretely at her face, her footsteps almost soundless as she pads out of his room. It takes him a moment to register the sound of the front door closing, softly, behind her.

He's drained and stiff, slumped back against the foot of his bed, eyes closed. He's not being fair, and he knows it, but he needs some time to himself. His clothes have been folded and put away and his room is cleaner than it probably was yesterday, and he's more or less pieced together what's happened last night.

It's strange how much the world can change in a day, in an hour, in a second. He leans back, arms tired, mind slogging through the muddy swamp of his once pristine beliefs. His absolute truths lie somewhere else, dashed against the jagged spires of reality. He'd once thought he knew who he was, had once believed he understood the people he loved. He's drowning now, in an oppressive, intolerable world, where reality has finally managed to suffocate the last hopeful strands of his carefully cultivated existence.

The time passes of its own accord, and he realizes somewhat belatedly that he's missed the appointment with his friends, at the burger joint across town. He wonders whether or not Liza's gone to meet them, her name floating further away, an abstract more than the girl who'd woken him up this morning.

The drawer is still open, and an empty condom wrapper lies, obtrusive and unwelcome, just inches away on the floor.

* * *

They don't know what to make of it, anymore. It's obvious enough that there's some sort of a rift – some un-repairable damage done to the foundation of their friendship. Harold and Jenny still come study with him, sometimes, in the library, and join her for her varsity soccer games, but they hardly ever hang out as a group anymore.

The decision is made in the midst of it, his forcefully swallowed reality turning his perspective. He was really only in town because he wasn't quite ready, just yet, to believe that he wouldn't find that flash of gold, whipping just around the corner and enticing him – hoping to engage him in another friendly game of Catch me if you Can. He digs a little bit less, each time Roy calls him up, until he's no longer his long time friend's go-to source for sensitive information. The older redhead isn't angry that he's not longer helpful, exactly, just apologetic about his role in his disillusionment.

Wally sighs, expelling the last of his hope with his breath. All they really wanted was closure, he thinks, and now that he at least has it, he can't stay here anymore.

They'd talked, jokingly, of their future together, of their plans for university and careers outside of the ones they'd volunteered for. When she'd still been open to such courses of action, when she'd still believed it was possible for the two of them to make something of their time together. He's always spoken fondly of Stanford, something he knows rubbed off on her a little bit too. He signs the papers over the course of the last week before break, talks to the Dean of his facility and somehow makes a last minute spot.

The year ends without any fanfare, and he doesn't really say any goodbyes.

* * *

"Hey." The words float in, sharp despite the cautious tone, and he shifts immediately, nearly dropping off the edge of the steps.

"Hey."

She hesitates before him, then drops onto the porch step, a noticeable foot between them. The silence is long and awkward, and he fidgets, unsure of what to say. "So. You're transferring."

He can't look at her. "Yeah. I'm uh, going to Stanford this fall."

"Congratulations." The words are stiff and tense, and he flinches. "I'm sorry – I was going to tell you, but I wasn't sure what to say."

"Hey, Liza, I'm transferring to Stanford in the fall. How great is that? Also, I'm sorry for sleeping with you that one night, that was a huge mistake. But at least we won't have to worry about that now!"

Her words are acerbic, and they burn, acid on the heart. His fingers twine together, nails scratching at his calluses. "It wasn't a mistake."

She sighs, the fight flying with her breath. "Everyone's entitled to make mistakes."

He shakes his head, and she watches as the distorted edges of his hair pierce the concrete. "I'm sorry I was yours."

The sky is blue for so early in the morning, and she closes her eyes against the warmth of the sun. "I don't know if I am, just yet." She's silent, for a moment, weighing the variables in her mind. "It's my fault too."

"You don't need to say that. I was wrong for doing –"

"I knew."

Lashes flicker, brushing the skin above his cheeks as he turns to her. She doesn't move, doesn't open her eyes, just wills her breath not to fail her and hopes he doesn't interrupt. It's bizarre, but for some reason, she wants to write a clear outline; detailing just where the fault lies. "I liked you even before we first met, did you know that?" Her hair wisps against her cheek as the breeze catches it, and she shifts slightly, to keep the ends from tangling her words. "You were that one handsome ginger freshman, who was somehow both incredibly confident and still soft-spoken and shy and kind. And you always had this strange look in your eyes, this sort of intense inner emotion that made you seem so . . . so different.

"Anyway, I probably would have let things go at that; just checking you out, out of the corner of my eye as you wandered through campus. But then there was that one day, and – do you remember Rachel? The Sociology and Women's Culture T.A.? It was raining all afternoon sometime in early October, and the ground was wet and muddy and no one was walking across the Quad. Except for Rachel, apparently, because she was late to this meeting or class, with an arm full of papers and a determined stride. It was slippery and wet and the heels, obviously, weren't her best choice, and she slipped in the middle of the field and scattered her papers all over the grass with the rain still coming down.

"I was watching from the windows and I had an umbrella under my arms and I realized that no one was going out to help her. The rain was coming down pretty hard and she was in the middle of the Quad. I was on my way out to give her a hand when I saw you hunched over, out of nowhere, with a bunch of soggy papers in your hands and your knees planted firmly in the mud. You picked up everything.

"I came over anyway, even though you were more or less done, and you were offering to help her bring everything back to her office or wherever it was that it needed to go. And you had the sweetest, kindest, expression on your face. You turned around without ever once seeing me, I think, but that didn't mean I didn't get a pretty good look. Your eyes were the most open I'd ever seen them. It wasn't difficult, after that, to realize that I was being pulled in; like I was standing at the edges of a whirlpool, about to be sucked down.

"And then I met you, _really _met you, and the first time we ever talked you were hung-over and completely incoherent. You eyes were unfocused and wild, like you were chasing a conversation I couldn't see, and I chalked the majority of it up to your presumably impressive headache and inability to form any real strings of conversation. But I was finally talking to you, and I was so excited, and I decided to take you up on your offer anyway – to be friends, I mean.

"You can't even imagine how happy I was." Her words swirl around his ears, and he drops his head onto his arms, watching her mouth as the sentences tumble out, controlled but unstoppable. "I was finally friends with you after catching glimpses of you and wondering after you, for months. And your eyes were so much more expressive up close.

"That's why it was probably impossible for me _not _to have known. It wasn't obvious, if you're even worried about that, but I could see that you were always watching in the peripheral of your vision. Not like you were looking for someone, more like you were watching memories play out in the background. Like you were constantly seeing a ghost.

"But then there was that one night, and you were looking at _me _with that expression, and I was optimistic to the point of being unbelievably, _stupidly, deluded_, and I thought maybe you were done chasing shadows." Her eyes are still closed but she can barely hear the slight, soft breath of maybe laughter, and she pauses for a moment, gathering her courage and willing her frustration not to break. Not just yet.

"You shouldn't have done it. But I was stupid and selfish and willfully blind and I did it first, I guess." All the air seems to escape with the sentence, and she slumps forwards, suddenly tired, her composure gone. "It wouldn't have killed you to tell me, though."

He shakes his head and his shoulders shudder and it takes her a moment to realize that he's almost laughing. She frowns, ready to stand and leave and admit to herself that even coming over was a huge mistake, when he stills as best he can and turns to her, giving her the deepest, saddest, most genuine smile she thinks she's ever seen. "You're probably the most perfect girl I've ever met."

A blink. "Excuse me?"

"I broke your heart because I was an idiot and a jerk and you came over here just to tell me that you had a hand in it too? You have every right to be furious, to punch me and scream at me and defame me all up and down the internet, and you're coming over here trying to make me _feel better_." His eyes are shining and clear and she can tell, this time, that he's really seeing her; fully looking at her, his attention secured. Focused.

"You're the most perfect _person _I've ever met. Compassionate and beautiful and smart and kind."

Her lips lift in a small, heartbreaking smile. "It's not enough though, is it?"

The expression is wiped from his face, and the genuine apology replacing it makes her look away, almost cringing. "I'm sorry."

She shrugs sadly, and turns to the sky again. "It's never enough." The wood of the porch is rough and scratchy against her palms when she presses up, pushing onto her feet and turning towards the road. "I'm not perfect, anyway. I'm certainly not above wishing you would have your heart broken in a million pieces by someone else, too. Not that it would work."

"I'm sorry the only part of me you ever got was some heartless bastard," he says, eyes downcast, tracing the paths of the ants in the cracks. Even ants can't function alone.

"It's not that you don't have a heart." She hasn't turned back, but she hasn't moved forwards, and he watches the way her golden hair flows around her shoulders. "You just haven't managed to put it back together again."

He's standing, too, then, and there's a sudden stillness, descending upon them with such rapidity that it feels as though it's been dropped on them with a terrible, unnameable force. The toes of her sneakers scuff against the sidewalk, and she pushes her hands into the pocket of her hoodie.

"Good luck then, I guess. Make lots of new friends."

He walks over, and she can feel the slight breeze of his breath on her shoulder. "Thanks." She turns, just slightly, and suddenly she's smiling, and he tilts just slightly forwards to brush a kiss against her cheek. She shifts just enough for him to catch the sweet strawberry balm on her lips.

"Make me proud."

A whirl of gold colour floats across his face and she's already walking back down the street, tall and straight-backed, leaving her regrets trailing in a pitiful cloud in her wake. "Hey!" He calls, and the sound echoes in the early morning air, stirring the silence and the quiet and all the remaining feelings left hanging unsaid at their feet. She rotates until he can see her slight profile, soft smile lingering at the corners of her mouth. "Yeah?"

"You'll be happy." It's his promise, to her, that he wants to leave her with. Something that he'll fulfill with his own strength, if he has to. "And if anyone ever breaks your heart, just let me know. I'll beat them up, I promise."

He's inexplicably proud at the short laugh she releases. "You'll be happy too."

Then she's facing the end of the street again – facing the horizon and the future and another beginning, and he lets her go, her footsteps so silent that he wonders whether or not she's already gone. His hands are pushed into the front pockets of his jeans, and he ambles back up the steps, settling onto the porch and watching the sunrise, the morning air disturbing his already messy hair.

This summer is unseasonably cool.

X.

X.

X.

_The steady beeping kept pace with her breaths – she used it as a marker, of sorts, forcing herself to breathe. She hadn't expected it, obviously none of them had, and the fact that she was sitting in this chair, again, and waiting for the first sign of cognizance, pressed her solidly into the seat with a guilt and anguish that she knew she wouldn't be able to handle feeling ever again._

_The light in the bay had been turned off ages ago; hours or minutes she isn't sure. But she doesn't like the yellowness of it, the way it makes his skin turn sickly and gaunt and causes her heart to jump into her throat as she's forced to remember, all over again, what a human corpse looks like. _

_She's startled when the hand in hers suddenly squeezes her, and her eyes snap, quick, to his face. His lids are closed, the lashes almost obscured by the heavy white bandages, and she shakes her head, afraid that she's going to go insane._

"_. . . forever." _

_She nearly jumps, the sound is so unexpected, echoing in the empty medical bay and bouncing along the inside of her skull. She shifts forwards, face leaning towards his. A whispered word drifts, soft and hesitant. "What?"_

"_It doesn't matter what happens." The sentence is broken, interspersed with heavy, laboured breathing and a slight cough. She squeezes his hand, watching his mouth to be sure she isn't imagining it. His lips part only slightly, expelling a slightly antiseptic smell. "You can't get rid of me."_

_A cool finger alights on his cheek, trying to feel for the possibility of fever. "Artemis."_

_She pauses, pressing her hand gently against the curve of his jaw. "Wally."_

"_I love you, you know." Her breath hitches, throat closing as she forces her fingers not to clench. "You'll be stuck with me forever."_

_Her words are soft and soothing, like a spoken lullaby. "Forever, huh?"_

"_Until the end of time." _

_She smiles, her eyes suddenly drawn and sad, and she wills herself not to cry on his freshly wrapped bandages. Forever is never as long as people tend to make it out to be. His breathing is already slowing, the result of an automatic morphine spike for erratic heartbeats, and she can feel him slip back into unconsciousness. They won't be able to make it to forever._

_She bends over him, her lips brushing against the tip of his ear. "Keep up as long as you can, Wally."_


End file.
